Yorg Pasha frowned. “That is very serious indeed. But you won’t be going for another month yet. Surely your brother-in-law will turn up by then. The attack on Feride is another matter. I imagine we know who’s behind that.”
“I know you think it’s Vahid.” Kamil propped his head in his hands. “But what I don’t understand is why.”
57
Vera sliced the apples they had purchased at Gosdan’s shop on a wooden board while Marta kneaded dough. Her face was dusted with flour, and her powerful hands plowed efficiently through the pale mass on the table. Apollo sat on a chair near the stove, his prominent nose bent over a piece of the apple cake that had just emerged from the oven. He was tall and angular, with thick black hair and mustache, high cheekbones, and a ready smile. His dark brown eyes glowed with pleasure.
“This tastes as good as my mother’s cake,” he told Marta, swallowing. “I give no higher praise than that.”
“How is your mother?” Vera asked, basking in the familiar sound of Apollo’s resonant voice, as burnished and rich as caramel. She wished for him to continue speaking, to extend the balm of his voice over her forever. The afternoon light slanted into the room and lit up ropes of crimson peppers, clusters of garlic heads, and bouquets of herbs hung up to dry. Vera relished the rhythmic chopping and the ever-growing pile of red-rimmed slices filling her bowl. She felt content, she realized, though she found herself testing even pleasant feelings as gingerly as if she were palpating a wound.
“She’s not well, Vreni,” he answered, using the diminutive of her name. Only Apollo and her own family had ever called her Vreni, Vera thought. Her knife slipped and the white flesh of the apple in her hand flushed red. Apollo rushed over. “Put your finger in your mouth,” he told her. “Now give it to me.” He pressed his finger on the cut, hard. “The pressure will stop the bleeding.”
They stood facing each other, Vera’s hand inside Apollo’s. The hands of a philosopher, she thought, admiring his long, slender fingers. She had found Apollo less than an hour ago, and already he was comforting her.
“That’s why I couldn’t meet you on the boat as we had planned,” he explained. “My mother had an attack of apoplexy. It happened while I was visiting her to say goodbye. She started shaking uncontrollably, and I could see something receding in her eyes. It seemed as though she didn’t know me.”
Apollo had dropped Vera’s hand. She took his and pressed it. “That’s awful. Has she recovered at all?”
“She’s much better, a bit lame on one side, but she can care for herself again. Still, some part of her soul has left us. You can see it when you look into her eyes.”
Marta clanged the oven door shut on the second apple cake, wiped her hands on her apron, and checked the samovar. “Let’s sit,” she suggested. “Father Zadian has gone to a meeting. He’ll probably be away all afternoon.”
When they each had a glass of tea in hand, Marta asked him, “What do you plan to do?”
“Father Zadian has invited me to stay at the rectory for now. Gabriel is at New Concord, so as soon as I can arrange transportation, I’ll join him.” Apollo looked curiously at Vera. “You decided to stay here?”
Vera’s contentment evaporated. She nodded in assent, unable to say anything more.
Marta came to her rescue. “Vera was detained, so Gabriel went on without her.”
“Detained?” Apollo looked to Vera for an explanation.
Vera flinched from his gaze. With Apollo she wanted to be the old Vera, before anything else had happened. The Vera with whom he discussed the debates of their Henchak comrades, the Vera who prepared picnics for her friends in the Bâtie Woods, the Vera who remembered how to laugh. When she looked up, it was to see Marta explaining something to Apollo in a low voice. The look on Apollo’s face was enough to tell Vera that her old self was gone. Like Apollo’s mother, some part of her soul was now missing.
58
Vahid strode into the Fatih police station, followed by three of his men, escorting a nun. They were not visibly armed, but their black uniforms caused a stir as the policemen whispered to one another, trying to guess which organization the visitors represented. Vahid wore a tightly tailored stambouline frock coat. With his high black boots and air of command, he needed no insignia.
Omar was sitting on his usual stool in a corner of the station. He recognized Sister Balbina from the Italian church, the one who had found Sosi’s body. He watched as Vahid and his contingent moved toward the large oak desk that, although Omar never used it, boasted a plaque with his name. Someone brought a stool for the nun. Omar lit another cigarette and watched the group for a while. He wondered what Vahid wanted.
The policemen in the station, aware that their chief was not at his desk but observing his visitors at his leisure, couldn’t resist an occasional snicker, and there rose a distinct murmur in the room. When Omar saw Vahid’s face flare red, he got up and wandered over.
“What can I do for you?” he asked politely.
To his surprise, Vahid laughed out loud. “Public shaming, meant to break down your enemy. Not bad for a small-time policeman, but rather trivial and, dare I say so, childish.”
“What do you want?” Omar asked, already sick of the man.
“The watch. Is this the man, Sister?”
Sister Balbina nodded. “Yes, I gave the watch to him.”
“Let’s have it,” Vahid snapped at Omar.
“What watch?” Omar asked. He had sent a messenger to Kamil telling him about the watch, but hadn’t had the opportunity to return it.
“The watch the dead girl had in her hand. The sister here said she gave it to you. And don’t claim you never saw it. I’ve got ten nuns willing to testify. And you know nuns never lie.”
His smile reminded Omar of a viper he had once seen in the desert that had swallowed a rat. Omar had killed it. “What’s your interest in this case?” he asked Vahid. “Is it worth your while to be chasing around town after a watch?”
“What was the name on it?” Vahid asked the nun.
“Kamil. A gift from his mother. It was in French.” She nodded officiously, her wimple moving up and down.
The station had fallen silent.
The reason for my interest is clear, Vahid’s smug smile seemed to say. Omar wanted to punch his fist right through it. He realized that it was useless to deny that he had the watch. His word against ten nuns. If he were Christian, he would cross himself against the devil. If he didn’t give them the watch, they would still implicate Kamil, and then he would be accused of destroying evidence-or of corruption and who knew what else. Omar didn’t mind an accusation of corruption, especially if it was deserved, but he needed to be free to help Kamil. His eyes fell to Vahid’s boots. They were the right size, new and of good quality, with a nick at the edge of the sole that matched the footprint in the churchyard.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out Kamil’s pocket watch, and handed it to Sister Balbina. He wouldn’t give Vahid the pleasure of taking it from his hand. “It means nothing,” Omar told him, “unless we know how it got there.” He gave Vahid a meaningful look. “And I know who put it there.”
“You know nothing, and you can prove nothing.” Vahid took the watch from the nun’s hand and bounced it on his palm. “But this does.”
The moment they were gone, Omar rode hard to Kamil’s office. To his surprise, a line of gendarmes was guarding the front of the courthouse. They hadn’t even waited to see whether he would give them the watch, Omar thought angrily. It was outrageous for someone of Kamil’s stature to be arrested in public. Surely they wouldn’t imprison him. Pashas don’t appear in court and they don’t go to jail. It would be as unthinkable as arresting the sultan.
Omar ran up the stairs into a scene of chaos. Kamil stood in the middle of a knot of people, looking calm but puzzled. The captain of gendarmes was explaining to Kamil in an apologetic voice that he had instructions to arrest him but that he hadn’t been instructed as to the reason. A repeating rifle was slung across the captain’s shoulder and a revolver stuck in the crimson sash around his waist. A scimitar hung from his sword belt. Kamil’s assistant Abdullah was shouting at the captain to get out if he didn’t have cause to arrest the pasha. The burly doorkeeper, Ibrahim, stood beside Kamil, scowling and ready for a fight.