Kamil’s nerves were so taut that the click of cup on saucer sounded as loud as an explosion.
“The police wanted to detain them,” the director went on, “but they left, which I thought was wise at the time. But this morning the hanoum returned. She and her associates said they had been attacked on the road. The doctor and one of their servants are quite badly wounded.”
Kamil rose, knocking against the table and spilling the coffee. “And the women?”
Looking confused, the director unfolded his lanky body from the chair. “There was only one woman, Huseyin Pasha’s wife. She and the foreign man accompanied the wounded here.”
“Where are they?” Kamil grasped the back of his chair, his knuckles white.
“The police have them locked up,” the director explained in an anxious voice, making propitiatory motions toward Kamil with his hands. “I told them they couldn’t treat exalted personages like that, but it was like talking to stone. I did what I could to make them comfortable. I put the hanoum in the guest room. The Frank was covered in blood and by rights should be in the infirmary, but the police took him away.” The director righted Kamil’s cup. “Would you like to see them?”
Kamil stood by the door, barely able to control his impatience as the director opened it and preceded him out into the hospital courtyard.
“I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you’re here, Magistrate,” the director babbled as he led Kamil through the arcade and across the path to the padlocked door Kamil had noticed when he arrived. A policeman in a gray wool uniform and peaked helmet, armed with a rifle and sidearm, slouched against the wall beside the door. When he saw Kamil and the director, he jumped to attention.
“Kamil Pasha would like to speak with Huseyin Pasha’s wife,” the director told him.
The policeman threw back his shoulders and proclaimed loudly, “Impossible without permission from my commander.”
“Where is your commander?” the director asked.
Before the man could answer, Kamil stepped close to his face and snapped, “Open it. I am a special prosecutor for the sultan.”
The policeman fell back, “Of course, Your Eminence.” He bowed, clutching his fist to his heart. “I didn’t know. I wasn’t told.”
“Kamil!” he heard Feride cry out through the window.
The guard pulled the key from his pocket. Kamil grabbed it from him, unlocked the door, and flung it open. Feride ran into his arms.
“My sister,” he barked at the director and the astonished policeman.
Kamil was appalled at Feride’s appearance. Her charshaf was ripped and spattered with mud and what looked like blood. Her face was bruised and strands of hair escaped from beneath her veil. She hadn’t bothered to cover her face, and he could see that her lip was swollen.
“Allah protect us,” he called out. “What’s happened to you?”
Instead of answering, she pulled her veil across her face and pleaded, “Where’s Elif? You must find her.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.
Admonishing the director to take care of Feride, Kamil grabbed the policeman by the back of his uniform. “Where’s the foreign man?” He felt deep in his bones that she was in great danger. She was so frail in body and lately in spirit that it would take little to snuff out the flame.
The policeman led Kamil along an unlit hallway and unlocked a door.
Kamil stepped inside, but at first saw nothing in the darkness. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw Elif slumped against the wall, covered in blood. He enveloped her in his arms and carried her out.
46
Vera woke in a room with an icon of the Blessed Virgin on the wall before the bed and lace curtains at the sunny window. It took her several moments before she understood where she was.
The Agopian girl was sitting beside the bed, embroidering. She ran from the room, calling, “Mama, Papa, she’s awake.”
Madame Agopian bustled in carrying a dress and an armful of other garments. “Lena, welcome back to us. I’m sure a sleep did you good. When you’re ready, we can serve a late lunch.” She piled the clothing at the end of the bed. “I’ve had a few things altered to fit you. My seamstress can come and make any last-minute adjustments.” She looked down at the pile, frowning. “I didn’t want to wake you, you see, so I chose some things I thought would be practical. I hope you like them, but if not, please tell me and we’ll find something else. You will do that for me?”
Her face was so creased with worry that Vera almost laughed. She was certain she would never again worry about the cut of her clothing. “Thank you, madame. I’m sure it’s lovely. You’ve been so generous and kind.” She sat up and flinched. Her whole body ached. Her feet were blistered and scraped and throbbed beneath the bandages. She fingered the brushlike swatch where Vahid had cut off her hair.
When she had dressed, she joined the family in the dining room. Ravenous, she devoured the lamb and vegetable stew set before her and drank several glasses of water.
“Eat more, child,” Madame Agopian urged Vera, telling the maid to refill her plate. Her daughter watched their guest from beneath lowered lids.
Monsieur Agopian sent his plate away untouched. “Are you planning to return to Geneva?” he asked Vera. “I can arrange a berth for you on the next ship. I’ll cover the cost, so you needn’t worry. You must be anxious to get home.” At Madame Agopian’s startled glance, he added, “There’s no rush, none at all, but if I can be of help…”
It seemed to Vera that he was in a hurry for her to leave. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer. She could be in Geneva within the week. But she couldn’t leave without learning what had befallen Gabriel, and she wondered what to do about Sosi. If Sosi had been recaptured and Vera remained silent, the girl would be lost. Should she try to find her family? Gabriel had mentioned that his cell was based in Kurtulush, but she had no idea where that was. She wondered what Gabriel would do and found that she couldn’t imagine.
They moved to the sitting room. Sleep had cleared her mind, and she began to think about her predicament and what to do. Vahid knew her by the name Lena Balian. She realized that the only person who knew her by that name, and who could have told Vahid, was the grandfatherly gentleman sitting here before her, smoking his pipe. Yet without the Agopians’ help, she didn’t know what to do about Gabriel and Sosi. She was saddened by the thought that she couldn’t trust any of them. Still, if Vahid learned she was here, not only she but the Agopian family would be in danger.
When Madame Agopian and her daughter left the room, Vera asked, “Do you find it easy to be a publisher here in Istanbul, monsieur? I had the impression from our first conversation that you were under some pressure by the state.”
“Do you know the fable of the fig tree?” Monsieur Agopian asked her.
Vera shook her head no.
“One day the gardener asked the fig tree, ‘Why do you spread your branches so low to the ground?’ The fig tree replied, ‘I have many enemies. I bend low so that they won’t break my branches, and I serve them sweetness so that they forget evil.’”
Vera thought about this for a few moments, then asked, “Doesn’t that mean you condone evil?’”
“Not at all, my dear girl. It means that the weak must try to sweeten the bitterness of the strong by being humble and by serving them. We don’t really have another alternative.”
“You could grow the fruit higher and starve them.”
He chuckled at her naïveté. “They’d just pull the branches down or come with an ax. What have we gained by that? No, we must think of survival. There are good times and bad. We make our peace with the bad and save our strength to take advantage of the good.”