Feeling suddenly weak, she caught herself on a bedframe. Why was she so angry at him now when she should care the most? He put up with her bleak humors with a wink and a fond pinch. She knew many, even Kamil, found him boorish. Feride would never have believed such a man could draw her out of herself, make her laugh. Now, even if he were returned to her alive, that joyful rapport would be gone. She wanted to hate him for that. If she didn’t find him, she thought, these feelings would eat at her soul.
Elif came over and laid a hand on her arm, her face questioning. “Are you all right?”
Feride nodded. Elif had taken off her hat but kept on her greatcoat in the chilly hospital. She looked like a child, a young boy in a too-large coat.
Only the patient wards were kept warm with braziers, Feride realized. “How much does it cost to heat the hospital?” she asked the director. “It must be quite expensive to heat such a large stone building.” Secure that he couldn’t see her expression behind her veil, she tried to concentrate on the director’s response.
It was two hours before Director Levy’s assistant found the orderly and brought him back to the hospital. He was obviously drunk. “What’s so important that you take me away from my family?”
“Come with me,” Director Levy said, and led the way to Ward Three. He pointed to the empty bed marked with Kamil’s handkerchief. “Where is this patient?”
“How do I know?”
“He was your responsibility. You were on duty.”
“Well, I can’t watch everyone all the time. Maybe he got better and walked out.”
To everyone’s surprise, Elif stepped up to him and backhanded him hard in the face. She stepped nimbly aside when the orderly grabbed for her. Feride was astounded. Her friend seemed at times to be two quite different people, one calm and tenderhearted, the other impatient and fierce.
The director and Doctor Moreno moved between Elif and the orderly, who looked confused and fell back, overturning a stool. Several patients craned their necks and looked on curiously.
Feride said something to Elif, who pulled a silver coin from her pocket and grudgingly handed it to the orderly. An avaricious gleam passed through the man’s eyes.
“Now, please tell us where the patient is.”
The orderly raised himself up and crossed his arms. “Only if I keep my job.”
Feride turned pleading eyes toward the director, who told him, “All right. But one more infraction-big or small-and you’re out.”
“His relatives took him away,” the orderly announced.
“Why didn’t you note that in the log?” the director asked.
The orderly shrugged. “I was going to. The family said they wanted their son treated by believers, not by infidels.” He glanced with sly satisfaction at Director Levy.
“Where did they take him?”
The orderly didn’t answer until Elif dropped another coin in his hand. “Üsküdar.” He claimed to know nothing more than the name of the neighborhood, nor did he know their names. It was clear to Feride that he was lying. How could he have entered the patient’s move in the log if he didn’t know the name. Perhaps, ashamed of their prejudice against Jews, the family had paid him to hide their identity.
Üsküdar, she thought with dismay, was on the other side of the Bosphorus. It was getting dark.
26
Vahid threw the reins to the liveried servant and looked around in disgust at the wide, graveled drive, somehow clean of snow when the city was suffocating in it. Did Yorg Pasha have his servants melt it with their hot breaths or throw cauldrons of boiling water on it? These were the excesses that softened the empire’s belly, on which foreigners chewed like rats. The empire was being eaten alive because its leaders, like this pasha, traded their loyalty for gold, for fat, for unnaturally clean roads.
He strode forward, overtaking the servant who had come to greet him. The guard stood at attention and let him pass, just as if he had been expected. The massive gilded double doors were held open by yet more servants. This gave Vahid pause, as he had expected to surprise the pasha with his visit.
The pasha’s arms dealing was well known, and Vahid suspected that he had had a hand in the illegal weapons shipment. He couldn’t prove it, but Abel had told him the name of the bank robber and that he had stored the gold from the robbery in Yorg Pasha’s stable. Vahid thought about Abel’s sister, her resilient young body, the sharp note of desire in her voice. He caught his breath. The desire to live. It was intoxicating. Bridget had led him to Sosi, and Sosi to her brother, Abel, and now he was here in the home of one of the most powerful men in the empire. At this very moment, two Akrep agents, disguised as newly hired day laborers, were combing the stables.
Vahid swept into a mirrored entry hall. There he stopped and gaped in amazement. The walls and ceiling were painted with fantastical creatures, horned men with the legs and hooves of beasts, birds with women’s breasts. The images were repeated endlessly in the mirrors. The shamefulness of it-in an entry hall where everyone would see-chilled him. It transgressed any number of laws and norms of society. The worst kind of idolatry, it depicted the human form in a display of lewdness to which no decent woman should be exposed. Clearly only the debauched ever crossed this threshold.
He turned and saw a tall, dour-looking man standing by the entrance to a marble-paved corridor.
“Selam aleykum,” the man said. “I am the pasha’s secretary, Simon.”
“Aleykum selam.” Vahid shed his cape and laid it across a table inlaid with semiprecious stones. He was dressed in immaculate black trousers and a high-collared stambouline frock coat. He dropped his gloves on the table. “My business is with the pasha.”
“And you are?” Simon asked.
“Vahid. I’m a business associate. Please tell the pasha I wish to see him.”
Simon appeared unflappable. “I’ll see if he’s available,” he said mildly, turning and walking down the hall. After a moment, Vahid followed him.
He trailed the secretary down connecting corrridors, each hung with lavish tapestries with scenes he could not make out. Vahid wondered about the secretary’s name. Was he Jewish?
He almost stumbled into Simon’s back when the secretary abruptly stopped.
“Please wait here.” Simon opened a door, entered, and shut it behind him.
Vahid hesitated in the hallway, then he pushed through the door.
The room was empty. The secretary had vanished.
The small room was hung with tapestries, one of a hunt, the other of a horse with a single horn on its forehead trapped in an enclosure. Vahid wandered around the room, examining the embroideries, pulling one up occasionally to see if an exit lay behind it.
A door clicked open, so cleverly designed that it was indistinguishable from the wall. A dignified older man in a brocade robe entered, his sharp eyes taking the measure of his guest. Despite his advanced age, the pasha filled the room with his size and presence.
He smiled and gestured at a comfortable chair. “Please, Vahid. Join me in a cup of coffee. I’ve just received a shipment from Yemen. The beans have been fermented in the bellies of goats that live in trees. You’ll find the flavor most delicate.”
More fantastical creatures, Vahid thought. Coffee shat by goats. The old man watched him as if he could read his mind.
The pasha took a seat opposite Vahid in a large armchair. He smiled politely, waited for Vahid to respond, and, when he didn’t, nodded at Simon. Vahid saw the secretary hesitate before he left the room. Well, at least the Jew had enough sense to fear him, Vahid thought with satisfaction.