“How about two hours?”
The plasterer shrugged. “Five, maybe. Not less.” He nodded to the apprentice, who picked up the empty pail.
When they were gone, Omar put the stool back over the footprint and told Rejep to make sure no one disturbed it for five hours. Kamil wasn’t the only one who could be clever, he thought with satisfaction, putting the question of humanity out of his mind.
51
Yakup brought a tray of food from the hospital kitchen, where Kamil had sent him to learn what he could from the staff about the events of the night before.
“The staff says that the orderly on duty last night disappeared before the murders were discovered,” he told Kamil in a low voice. “Two of the policemen who were here this morning weren’t from the local station. They arrived after the others, asked a lot of questions, and then left. One of the cooks has a brother who works at the Üsküdar station, so he knows everyone there. Also, there were reports of strangers asking for Huseyin Pasha at other infirmaries.”
“Any idea who these people are?” Kamil could think of no conceivable reason someone would want to kill his brother-in-law. Perhaps the attack on Feride was in retaliation for Kamil’s appealing directly to the sultan and upsetting Vahid’s plans. But why the hunt for Huseyin?
“People are whispering about the secret police, but no one knows. A farmer has been spreading stories about a djinn in the vineyards. The townspeople are afraid to leave their homes.”
While Yakup returned to eat with the staff in the kitchen, Kamil brought some of the dishes to Doctor Moreno and Vali. They both had regained consciousness, although the doctor was still very weak. Vali sat on a bench in his underwear, his head bandaged, a towel across his lap, sewing up a tear in his trousers. When Kamil entered, the driver jumped to his feet, clutching the towel, embarrassed.
Kamil addressed them formally, “I would like to thank both of you, and Boatman Nissim, may he be received into paradise, for protecting my sister and Elif Hanoum.”
“I thank you, pasha, for honoring me.” Vali bowed his head. “I did no more than my duty, and barely that.”
Doctor Moreno tried to rise on his elbow, but winced in pain and let himself down again. “You needn’t thank me at all, son. I was lying on the ground like a discarded broom.”
“The doctor is right,” Vali said. “It’s Elif Hanoum who deserves our gratitude. I’ve never seen a woman wield a blade like that.”
“What do you mean?”
“Allah knows, I thought it was all over. Nissim was dead, the doctor and I helpless on the ground. I was reciting the fatiha and preparing myself for the end when I saw Elif Hanoum walk over, calm as glass, and pick up a sword one of the attackers had dropped. She used it fast and with no hesitation. Those men weren’t even able to raise their arms before she had already cut them off. She saved our lives.”
“How is she?” Doctor Moreno asked.
Kamil was still digesting the image of Elif slicing off men’s arms. “She’s not well. Physically she seems fine, but her mind has turned in on itself. We’re hoping it’s only temporary.”
Vali lowered his eyes. “I’m not surprised. I don’t understand how a woman could do what she did, but even less how she could bear it.”
“Women are hardier than men think,” Doctor Moreno said, but he sounded unsure.
“Well, you might be right there, Doctor. My wife, Allah protect her, is as tough as month-old bread.” Vali grinned.
Kamil called in an orderly to help the doctor eat, then stood in the waning light of the courtyard and thought about what to do. They’d have to stay the night. He hoped the patients would be well enough to move back to the city tomorrow. Omar hadn’t arrived, so he had only Yakup and his boatman, Bedri, for security. That would have to be enough; he trusted no one else. He himself would stand guard over Elif and Feride.
52
The new day dawned bright as a baby’s eye, with a cloudless pale blue sky and the promise of warmth. A week had passed in which Vera alternated between a kind of blank-eyed existence helping Father Zadian’s housekeeper, Marta, in the kitchen and a searing impatience to act. In frustration, Vera had stalked into the yard, taken an ax, and swung it over her head with all her might into the block. Her hands and shoulders still ached from the blow.
The following day, Marta asked Vera to accompany her on her weekly shopping rounds. Marta’s figure was sturdy as an amphora, her graying hair braided and pinned in a circlet at the back of her head, but her red-cheeked face and eloquent brown eyes retained a youthful eagerness. Being Christian, she didn’t veil her face. Marta hired a small boy who followed behind them with a big, cone-shaped basket on his back. In the mild air, the greengrocer had spread his wares on the sidewalk outside the door of his shop. He beamed with pleasure at Marta’s approach.
“Just give me the best, Gosdan,” Marta told him sternly. “We’ve been doing business for twenty years, and you always try to cheat me.”
“Marta.” Gosdan crossed his arms and puffed himself up in mock offense. “Never, never have I cheated you. I would rather cut off my right hand. Take these leeks.” He held out one of the fat green stems. “Thick as a sausage and just as tasty.”
Marta didn’t take the proffered vegetable. “You’ve obviously never cooked anything”-she leaned in and peered at him-“and sometimes I wonder whether you even eat. You’re getting as thin as that meager excuse for a leek you’re trying to sell me.”
Gosdan slapped his stomach with both hands. “Hard as a rock,” he announced.
“Well, give me two okka of sweet apples,” she relented. “Sweet, mind you.”
“Like you.” Gosdan selected the apples and put them in a bag made of folded newsprint. He filled another bag with Jerusalem artichokes. Into the boy’s basket went three cabbages, a brilliant white cauliflower, and another two okka of onions. The greengrocer carefully placed the bags on top, then added a leek and an orange from the south.
“So you remember me and come back,” he told Marta, who smiled and thanked him. “I’ll add the rest to the parish bill. Come by again soon. You could fatten me up with one of your apple cakes,” he suggested wistfully. He held the basket while the boy slipped his arms through the leather straps and balanced the load on his back.
Marta gave Gosdan a flirtatious smile, then lowered her eyes and stepped into the lane. Amused, Vera followed, trailed by the boy, plodding slowly under the weight of their purchases.
“Marta,” Vera asked, “did you ever meet my husband, Gabriel?”
“No, but I’ve heard much about him.”
Vera noted the caution in her voice and wondered what it was about Gabriel’s mission that kept everyone silent. She stopped and swung around to face Marta. “No one will tell me anything,” she burst out. “Why is that? He’s my husband. Don’t I have a right to know what he’s doing?”
Marta wouldn’t meet her eye but signaled to the boy to take a rest. He slid the basket from his shoulders and settled himself under a tree. Marta guided Vera into a wooded clearing beside the lane. “It’s unseasonably warm today,” she complained, wiping her face with her apron.
Vera turned her back. She didn’t want to talk about the weather.
“Your husband and his friends have founded a socialist community in the Choruh Valley. It’s called New Concord,” Marta told her. “Didn’t you know?”
Vera nodded. She had heard about the New Concord Project. Gabriel had collected money for it in Geneva and had encouraged people to emigrate there, but she had no idea that was the reason they had come to Istanbul.
Marta pulled Vera close. “Then you should know everything.” She continued in a low voice, “The authorities captured a shipment of illegal guns and the Ottoman Imperial Bank was robbed. Someone blew it up. They think Gabriel was responsible.”