He lit a cigarette and offered one to Kamil, who declined.
“The sooner I get over to the mosque, the more light I’ll have.” Kamil looked up at the ashen sky. “It gets dark so early now.”
“October is the gateway to hell, we used to say in the army.”
“Why is that?”
“It starts to get cold and dark, and before you know it, you’re frozen in a ditch hoping someone will pee on your hands to thaw them.”
Seeing that Omar looked serious, Kamil choked back a laugh. What did he know about the brutalities and absurdities of war?
Omar accompanied him to the gate. “If you need me, send a message to the station. You know how to get to the Kariye from here?”
Kamil smiled and pointed up the hill where the plump domes of a little mosque were visible above the roof lines. “Not far.”
“It’s farther than it looks. Sure you don’t want to borrow my horse?”
“I need to stretch my legs. If I keep going uphill, I’ll get there eventually.”
“Lots of hills around here,” Omar warned. “But ask anyone and they’ll point you in the wrong direction.” He chuckled.
As soon as Kamil entered the narrow lanes, the mosque disappeared, as did the hill, and he became lost in the chaotic, ruin-choked streets. Every shopkeeper gave him different directions, but eventually he caught sight of the domes again and oriented himself. Before long, he rounded a fountain and entered the little square before the mosque. The door of the mosque was locked, so he knocked at the imam’s house.
“He’s not here,” a man shouted helpfully from a window of the neighboring house.
“Where can I find him?”
The man shrugged and ducked back inside.
Kamil walked through the square under the gaze of a group of men who were playing backgammon in the shade of a plane tree. Their calls and the slapping of wooden pieces on the board punctuated the quiet afternoon. “Shesh-besh!” “Penj-u se.” “Du-shesh!”
At the back of the mosque he found Malik’s classroom. The door was shut but unlocked. Inside, Kamil stood for a moment, surveying the room. It hadn’t been touched since he was last here with Malik. At that moment, Kamil felt the loss of his friend more deeply than before, when his emotions had been flayed by anger. Now he registered every nuance of the man who was gone, his intelligence and gentleness, his devotion to his community, his family, even to a poor street boy like Courtidis. Kamil wished he could pray for Malik’s soul to whatever God was listening. He tried, but his mind wouldn’t hold still. Look for his killer, he told himself. That’s all you can do.
Kamil opened the cabinet. The key to the mosque lay on the top shelf. He was surprised that the imam still left it here, when it was likely that Malik’s murderer also knew its location.
Lips pressed in a thin line, Kamil picked up the heavy iron key and a lamp and made his way around the back, through the overgrown garden, to the front door. The men across the square watched him unlock the door and enter, but didn’t interrupt their game.
Kamil locked the door behind him and lit the lamp.
Elif was sweating under her hat but didn’t dare take it off. Some children had gathered behind her, chattering and pointing at her easel. Two men approached and greeted her. She answered in French. Better that they think her a Frankish man, thin, blond, odd like all Franks, and untouchable. But she was getting nervous and this made it hard to concentrate on her drawing.
She had captured the four domes of the cheerful little mosque, its red-tiled roof, and the fat tower of its minaret with a narrow balcony around the top from which the imam called the faithful to prayer. The minaret was topped by an unusual ornament shaped like a drop of water splashing onto its roof. Behind the mosque, the city fell away in a tangle of red roofs and trees. She had traced the outlines quickly in pencil, then charcoal, and finally pastels, one study after another, allowing the shapes and colors to dominate her senses until she felt as though the landscape were painting itself.
The carriage was parked in the lane below, out of sight from her perch on the hillside. She had told the driver he could have lunch and drink tea at one of the cafés in the square, but he said he preferred to wait. She presumed he didn’t want to have to answer the locals’ questions. But there was no escaping them, she thought, glancing with exasperation at her growing audience. She would have to leave soon.
Just then, she saw someone come around the mosque from the back and walk toward the door. He turned and for a brief moment regarded the square. She recognized Kamil. Heart racing, she packed up her things and began to run down the hill.
Kamil pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it. He glanced down the list, written in Elif’s sprawling script:
Mary
Mother of the Word
Message
Container of the Uncontainable
Slain children
Samaritan
Dwelling place
Matthew 2:16
He raised the lamp and, as before, stood transfixed under the lush garden of figures and scenes in gold and brilliant color that crowded around him. He found the image of Theodore Metochites and stood before him for a few moments, wondering what kind of man he had been. He knew much more about him now. He wondered what it had been like for Malik to come face to face every day with his ancestor. Of all the caretakers before him, only Malik had worked out the location of the Proof of God. He needed Malik’s help now to find it again. The thought resurfaced that perhaps Saba had already worked out where it was and had taken it. Or was she waiting for Kamil to find it and bring it to her? She had had Malik’s letter only for the briefest time and had been distraught when she had given it to Kamil to prove the truth of her mother’s story. No, he didn’t think she had found the Proof.
He bade farewell to Theodore and returned to the outer hall. He planned to begin in the south bay and work his way systematically through all the mosaic panels. The figures were so lifelike, they appeared to move. Nonsense, of course, but he admired the workmanship that made such an illusion possible. He thought he could feel Malik’s presence, and wished he could ask him to explain the images. Kamil realized he had little idea about Christian stories and iconography. Well, he would have to look for a word, a message, a container, and, improbably, slain children.
Just then, he heard a booming noise. Someone was knocking on the door. Annoyed at being interrupted, Kamil went to the door and pulled it open.
A slight figure in a broad hat slipped inside with a gaggle of children close behind. “Close it.”
“Elif!” he exclaimed. “How did you get here?” He tried to sound pleased.
Elif noted his tone and looked puzzled. “You said you’d be here this afternoon, so I waited for you. I was up on the hill sketching the mosque. Weren’t we planning to decipher the mosaics today?”
“Yes, of course.” Obviously he hadn’t made it clear he wanted to do this alone.
She took a few steps forward into the corridor and looked around. “Oh” was all she could say in amazement. She took her hat off and set her box of drawing materials on a ledge.
Kamil locked the door again. He found a second lamp, lit it and gave it to Elif. “There are windows, but the corridors with the mosaics are dark. This is the outer narthex.” It was as if he could hear Malik’s voice reciting in his ear. “And that’s the inner narthex.” He pointed at the inner corridor that gave onto the nave.
“These are wonderful,” she exclaimed breathlessly, walking up and down, shining the lamp on the walls.
“What do you know about Christian saints?”
She tore her eyes away from the mosaics. “Quite a bit. My father-in-law was a devout Christian. He took my son to church and read him stories about the lives of the saints.”