He handed her the list of terms.
She scanned it, then looked around and said, “Mary is everywhere. The whole church seems to be dedicated to her.” She pointed to the next term. “Mother of the Word. That’s Mary too. Maybe it means the words are in the church dedicated to her. Same with the next term, Message. But I don’t understand Container of the Uncontainable.”
What had Malik shown him? Kamil tried to remember. They had walked through the inner and outer corridors, but Kamil hadn’t paid much attention to the location of the mosaics Malik had spoken about. He remembered something about a clay container, an amphora, but he didn’t see it.
“Let’s start over here and work our way through,” he suggested, leading Elif to the north end of the corridor behind the door.
They stood in the first bay surrounded by panels and inscriptions.
“I wish I could read Greek.” She squinted at the panels. “I think I recognize some of these. This looks like the story of Jesus’s birth. That bearded man might be Joseph, Jesus’s father. There’s Mary pregnant.”
They followed the panels along the corridor. “Here’s a familiar scene.” She pointed.
“The birth of Jesus,” Kamil said, regarding the shepherds and, in the next panel, three richly clothed men, “and the wise men from the east.”
Elif pointed up at the vaulted domes, “We’re not looking at the pictures in the domes. Look. There’s John the Baptist. There’s so much here. If we look at everything, we’ll never finish.”
Kamil had no answer. They had reached the middle of the outer narthex by the front door.
Elif strained her head backward, exposing the arch of her throat. The mosaics in the vault were badly damaged, but a dazzling image of Christ guarded the entrance to the inner narthex.
“Come with me.” Kamil took her hand. “I want to introduce you to someone.”
He drew her through the opening and they stopped beneath the lunette over the entrance to the marbled nave.
“This is Theodore Metochites.”
“What an extraordinary hat.”
Kamil told her what he could remember of the man.
“So he’s responsible for all of this magnificent art!” she exclaimed. “Bravo. That explains the hat too. An artist.”
Kamil thought she looked happy-vital and less vulnerable. He wondered why that should disappoint him. Was it that she needed him less?
Since they were in the inner narthex, they continued along that corridor, Elif reading stories into the images wherever she could. She was puzzled by some of the panels until she exclaimed, “It’s the life of Mary. Look, there she’s born and there she’s with her parents. An angel is feeding her.” She stopped before a panel that showed a rod sprouting jewel-like leaves.
“I know this story. I’ve always found it a bit risqué.”
“Risqué? In a church?”
“When it was time for Mary to be married, the high priest called all the widowers together and placed their rods on the altar.”
Kamil began to laugh.
“Then he prayed for a sign. Joseph’s rod began to sprout green leaves, so the priest gave Mary to him.”
“Well,” Kamil said. “I won’t repeat that story to the devout gentlemen who pray here every Friday.”
They smiled at each other in the gloom. Kamil looked through the door into the nave and noticed the light failing through the windows. Elif followed his glance and found herself drawn into the marble-paneled room.
“Another time,” Kamil warned her. “We need to hurry. The imam will be here before long for the evening call to prayer. Let’s do this systematically. We’re looking for very particular images.”
They went back to the outer corridor and began at the door, moving south. They passed an enormous mosaic of Mary and Jesus, whose eyes seemed to follow them. Kamil looked for the image of the clay urn that Malik had shown him. Somehow he thought it was important, perhaps as the Container on their list, but he couldn’t see it. They were passing the panels quickly now, scanning them and moving on. He could see the stairway to the minaret. They must be near the spot where Malik died.
Suddenly he saw Elif in the final bay before the minaret, standing stiffly and looking up at something, her face aghast. He hurried to her side and followed her line of sight. It was an image of King Herod on a throne instructing his soldiers. To his left, a soldier held a baby aloft by its feet and thrust a knife through it. Behind him a black portal like a tomb opened into the rock. The baby’s mother sat bereft on the ground, hands aloft, her head turned away in despair.
“The slain children,” Kamil exclaimed.
“The massacre of the innocents,” she said softly, her eyes riveted to the scene.
Kamil put his hands on her shoulders and turned her away. “We’re getting close.” He looked around. “Do you see a Samaritan or a container of some kind?”
They raised their lamps and scanned the wall panels and domes. In the northwest corner of the bay was a damaged mosaic of Christ speaking with a woman at a well.
Elif looked at the image for a few moments, then said, “I’ve always assumed the story of the Good Samaritan was about a man, but I remember another story about Christ meeting a Samaritan woman at a well. She told him she had many husbands. That’s why I remember it. I noticed that the images in here all seem balanced. Whenever there’s a man, there’s also a woman.”
“So if there’s a male Samaritan, there would be a female Samaritan?”
“I’m just guessing.”
“In the interest of balance, did the male Samaritan have many wives?”
“Don’t be daft.”
Kamil squinted at the mosaic. There was no image of a container, clay or otherwise.
Below the dome, the walls bowed inward and parts were whitewashed. He remembered Malik telling him that the walls here had to be very thick to bear the weight of the church tower and now the minaret.
“Find a chair or a ladder,” he called out suddenly.
They hurried through the rooms until Kamil came back dragging a ladder he had found in a storeroom. It was spattered with white paint. He leaned it against the wall under the Samaritan woman and climbed until he came to the corner of the wall where it began bow inward. “Hold up the lamp.”
He felt along the wall, then rapped with his knuckles until he found what he was looking for. He pulled his knife from his boot and began to chip away at the plaster. It was fresh, so it came off easily. There was a pounding at the door. Elif looked around nervously.
He ignored the noise and concentrated on his task. Beneath the plaster, he exposed a hollow clay ring. Weepholes, he remembered they were called. Clay jars embedded in the walls to wick off moisture. The pounding became louder and he could hear the voices of several men. He reached into the hole but felt only debris. Something scurried over his hand. He thrust it in deeper.
“Hurry,” Elif whispered, clutching the base of the ladder.
He was surprised by the depth of the jar. Finally, he felt something smooth and cold beneath his fingertips. Water had beaded on it and it was slippery and heavy. He pulled it out slowly. It was a slim lead box two hands’ breadth long. He thrust it inside his jacket, slipped the knife back into his boot, and with one leap was on the floor. He pushed the ladder through the neighboring bay into the storage room. Elif put out the lamps and slapped her hat on her head. She took up her painting box and they stood, panting, before the door. From the other side, they could hear raised voices.
“Well, there’s no one in there now. I did not lose the key. Of course I know where it’s kept. Do you think I’m senile?”
Kamil whispered, “Wait.”
After a few moments, the voices stopped. Kamil imagined the imam walking behind the mosque to the classroom and rummaging through the cabinet, looking for the key. The men in the square would accompany him to prolong the excitement of their imam being locked out of his own mosque.