The Architect's Apprentice (24 page)

The day after he was released from prison, Jahan woke up with heaviness in his heart. He blinked a few times, unable to grasp where he was. The tamers were up and about, and, from behind the closed door, he could hear the growl of a leopard. Dragging himself out of the bed, he lurched into the courtyard and splashed water on his face from the fountain. A drizzle fell on the heather, pearly drops like dew. There was a fresh smell in the breeze, and the animals paced lazily in their cages. Though he had spent time with Chota the preceding evening, he was eager to see him again. Later on in the day he would visit his master. He was both exuberant and nervous. He would ask Sinan why he had not come to visit him in the dungeon, and if, for some reason, he was not able to, why had he not sent a letter.

By midday he reached his master’s house. His melancholy oozed away as soon as he saw Sinan and the affection in his gaze. He wondered if the father he had lost had ever regarded him like that. He stooped to kiss his master’s hand, but Sinan pulled him towards himself and held him in his arms. His voice breaking, he said, ‘Let me look at you. You are so thin, son.’

In a little while the blind
kahya
entered the room. Her son was now being taught all of his mother’s duties, and Jahan knew that one day very soon the man would be called upon to take her place. The apprentice felt a harrowing sadness, and hoped he would be able to say farewell to the old servant when the time came and ask for her blessing.

‘He needs to eat,’ Sinan said from his seat to the
kahya
.

‘The poor boy,’ the old woman exclaimed and, moving as quickly as she could, went to give orders for the meal.

The servants bustled in, carrying a low table, towels and wooden spoons. They placed in front of him bowls of honey, butter, cream,
flattened bread, sour-grape molasses, halvah and a jar of yoghurt drink with mint and raisins.

‘Eat! Drink!’ Sinan ordered.

Jahan complied, though he felt no hunger. When he could not take another bite, Sinan, who had been watching him, said quietly, ‘They punished you in order to get at me. Everybody knows that.’

Jahan was lost for words. Unaware of the bitterness fermenting in his apprentice’s heart, Sinan carried on. ‘His Majesty wishes to reconsider the water design. I’d like you to come with me to the palace. We need to clear your name.’

‘I don’t even know what I’ve been accused of,’ said Jahan.

A pause. ‘Treachery.’

It wasn’t horror Jahan felt in that moment, only a deep sadness. ‘Will Rustem Pasha be there?’ he asked. Seeing the Grand Vizier’s ugly face was the last thing he wanted.

‘No doubt. You’ll have to kiss his hand, ask his forgiveness. Can you do that?’

Jahan could not answer. Instead he inquired, ‘I don’t understand this sudden clemency. What has changed?’

‘That’s what I’ve been wondering myself. There must be a reason, but I can’t fathom it. All I know is that our Sultan has expressed his wish to see me.’

Jahan remained silent. It must have been Mihrimah. She must have talked to her husband and pleaded with her father, begging him to listen to the architects one last time. Hints delicate as tufts of dandelions in the wind. Everything suggested that she cared for him. Jahan lowered his head for fear his master could read his thoughts.

On the day of their visit Jahan put on new robes – light cotton
shalwar
, linen shirt, leather shoes, pointed at the toes. His master had bought them to help him look his best. Sinan, too, had carefully dressed in a russet kaftan and bulbous turban. The
kahya
muttered
the prayers she had learned from her mother almost a century ago and sprinkled rosewater blessed by seven imams on their heads.

They had been sent a royal carriage – a propitious sign, no doubt, indicating that the Sultan had some regard for them. Inside they sat, the master and the apprentice, scrolls in between them. Their stomachs tied in knots, they found it hard to talk. It was in this mood that Sinan and Jahan entered the palace.

Sultan Suleiman welcomed them. On one side of him stood the hefty figure of the Grand Vizier. On the other, the Shayh al-Islam and the Chief Janissary Agha. Their hands tightly clasped, they eyed them with a coldness they felt no need to mask.

The Sultan said, ‘Chief Royal Architect. Each of these honourable men has questions for you. Are you willing to answer?’

Sinan bowed. ‘I’m honoured, your Felicitous Majesty.’

The Shayh al-Islam, Ebussuud Efendi, his face as unreadable as a faded manuscript, spoke first. ‘In our glorious city there are bridges from the time of the infidels that have not survived. They collapsed because they were built without true faith. Do you agree?’

Sinan took a breath. ‘God gave us a mind and told us to use it well. Many ancient bridges are in ruins because they were not built upon firm ground. When we raise a bridge we make sure the water is shallow, the earth is solid, the tides favourable. Bridges are built with faith, true. But also with knowledge.’

Sultan Suleiman made a gesture to his left, the signal for the Chief Janissary Agha to speak. ‘Majesty, your vassal Sinan seems to think he can predict how much water there is seven layers under the ground. How is that possible? We thought he was an architect, not a necromancer. Does he also profess mastery of the occult?’

Jahan blenched at the innuendo, aware of the implications of being accused of black magic.

Sinan replied, ‘I have no experience in divination. The amount of water under the earth can be measured through the right use of instruments.’

‘These instruments he mentions – do they come from Allah? Or from Sheitan?’ said the Chief Janissary Agha.

‘Surely from God,’ replied Sinan. ‘He wants us to expand our knowledge.’

The Shayh al-Islam interjected: ‘Al-Khidr, may he rest in Paradise, discovered water. Do you claim to be a holy man like him?’

‘I’m not worthy of the fingernail of a holy man,’ Sinan said. ‘Al-Khidr travelled with the Prophet Moses and unravelled the secrets of the universe. Next to his knowledge, mine is a droplet of water. But I believe, using the right measurements, we can locate the invisible sources.’

The Sultan turned to the Grand Vizier. ‘What do you say, Pasha?’

Rustem gave a dry cough. ‘I’d like to learn how much the Chief Royal Architect is planning to spend. Our treasury cannot be emptied.’

Expecting this question, Sinan said, ‘There are two choices. The spending will differ, depending on the wishes of my Sultan.’

Suleiman was intrigued. ‘What do you mean, Architect?’

‘Majesty, our aim is to bring fresh water to the city. We need labourers, hundreds of them. If you prefer, we will employ galley slaves. Then you won’t have to pay them. You’ll have no end of vassals.’

‘What is the second way?’

‘We hire skilled craftsmen. They’ll be paid, according to their ability and service to his Majesty. In return they will give their sweat and their prayers.’

‘So he thinks he can fill the coffers with sweat and prayers?’ Rustem said.

Ignoring the remark, the Sultan asked Sinan, ‘Which would
you
suggest?’

‘I believe we should pay them and get their blessings. The treasury might not be all that it was, but it’s better for the throne and for the people.’

Jahan went pale, expecting the worst. At last, after a long, awkward silence, the Sultan raised his hand and said, ‘The Chief Royal Architect is right. Water is a charity and must be distributed generously. I shall give water to the people and I shall pay my workers.’

But with the next breath Suleiman said to Sinan, ‘Even so, I’m not allowing you to build a new bridge. Renovate the aqueducts – that’s enough.’

The chamber stirred as each man reflected on who, if anyone, had won the argument. Sinan said, ‘My Lord, with your permission, my Indian apprentice will help me with the renovation.’

The Sultan ran a finger through his beard as his eyes took in Jahan. ‘I remember him. It’s good you have such a dedicated apprentice.’ He paused. ‘What do you say, Pasha – shall we forgive him?’

The Grand Vizier, a sparkle in his eyes, extended his arm. Sinan nodded encouragingly at Jahan. Showing more determination than he felt, Jahan took a step forward as through a mist and kissed the plump hand with rings, put it on his forehead. He would have loved to swipe one of those rings, he thought. A recompense for his sufferings.

‘May God bless your efforts,’ said Rustem, his icy glare at variance with the sweetness in his voice.

On the way back they passed through marble corridors, the master and the apprentice. The elation that came over them was so intense that they found it hard to stay silent. Jahan knew that not only his heart had been pounding: his master, too, had been scared. Once again, Sinan had found himself in a tight spot when all he wanted to do was his work. Once again, as though aided by an obscure well-wisher, he had been reprieved. Perhaps he had a protector, Jahan thought, a mysterious patron who interfered on his behalf each time things got too thorny, an invisible guardian angel always by his side …

Back in the menagerie, Jahan found the animal-tamers waiting for him with a smirk on their faces.

‘Come with me,’ said Olev, folding his arms over his chest.

‘Where are we going?’ said Jahan.

‘Don’t ask,’ said Olev and pulled him by the elbow. ‘A man who’s just come out of prison is a man in need of joy.’

To Jahan’s surprise, Olev led him towards the stables of the favoured horses. Here they kept the best thoroughbreds, each of which wore round its neck a blue amulet against the evil eye. Upon seeing them approach, the Chief White Eunuch’s beloved stallion, Tempest, neighed softly. Noble, majestic, alone. Olev patted the animal, speaking sweet words in his ear.

‘Will somebody tell me what’s going on?’ inquired Jahan nervously.

‘You always wanted to ride this horse, didn’t you? This is our gift to you.’

‘But Kamil Agha –’

Olev cut short his words with a raise of his hand. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all arranged. He’s not in the palace tonight. He’s out visiting the
hamam
of sorrows. Don’t ask me where that place may be, I cannot tell.’

‘But what do you expect me to do with the horse?’

‘Nothing,’ Olev responded, giving a wink. ‘Just go and ride down the hill.’

A little while later, a shadow shot out of the stable gates: Jahan, lying so low his body was level with the horse’s back, riding Tempest into the dark. The two guards by the gates, having been bribed beforehand, couldn’t care less. He galloped in the direction Olev had mentioned, enjoying the wind on his face, feeling free and reckless
for once. After a bit he slowed down. There, in the near-distance, was a cart and huddled together on it were the Gypsies!

‘What on earth?’ Jahan exclaimed. ‘When did you get out of prison?’

‘Oh, we’d all been released about a month before you. We just waited with you until you were pardoned,’ said Balaban.

‘What? Why didn’t you tell me?’ stammered Jahan. ‘What are you doing here at this hour?’

‘The lion-man sent us word,’ Balaban said, as he tethered Tempest’s reins to the back of the cart. ‘Your friends had a chat about you, it seems. They think it’s time for you to have a bit of pleasure. You deserve it.’

‘What does that mean?’ Jahan said suspiciously.

The glance that the Gypsies exchanged was one of amusement.

‘You’ll see,’ said Balaban, and before Jahan could object he whipped the donkey. The cart set off, followed by Tempest.

The cart rattled along, passing through the country lanes and the field tracks. Though it was a crisp autumn evening, with the sky a velvety black, patches of mist were rolling up northwards, edging towards the outer ends of the city. A blanket of fog swallowed the winding streets and arching bridges, and Istanbul swallowed them. They passed through alleyways, many of which were so narrow – with wooden houses on both sides buckled like saplings bent in a gale – that their axles scraped the walls as they rode by. Each neighbourhood they left behind seemed quieter, mustier and more doleful than the last. Balaban fell silent. All they heard for a long time, other than the occasional squawk from a seagull, was the clatter of hooves and wheels on the cobblestones.

The wagon came to a halt and they climbed off. Taking a breath to steady himself, Jahan jumped down from the horse, looked around for a familiar sight and found none.

‘Come on,’ Balaban said, nudging him. ‘Movement is a blessing.’ Putting his right hand on his heart, the chieftain turned to his men. ‘You go, God go with you.’

Jahan trod behind Balaban. At each step the street smells intensified – traces of jasmine mingling with the tang of the sea and the whiffs of food, briny and garlicky. Tamers learned a lot from their animals and there was one thing Chota had hammered into him: how to sniff better. So he paid more attention to these scents in the breeze, and after a while he caught a hint of perfumed oils from a house nearby.

‘What is this place?’ whispered Jahan.

Balaban chuckled. ‘Don’t you get it? We’ve brought you to the bawdy house!’

Jahan paled. ‘I refuse to go.’

‘What? You afraid of the wenches? We’ll just go in and take a look. If you don’t like what you see, we’ll leave. May my blood redden the soil under your feet if I lie. Come on, Indian. After all we’ve gone through in the gaol, listen to me.’

Jahan dithered. He could neither accept nor refuse. Balaban pushed him, ceaselessly talking to assuage his fear. He explained that a brothel in Istanbul was a bit like the beginning of a Turkish tale –
Once there was, once there wasn’t
. Several harlots could dwell under the same roof for months, and, just when you thought they would be there forever, they’d vanish into thin air, the house an empty shell. Then there were the wives, as poor as a mouse in a looted larder, their husbands gone to war or good for nothing, who would become strumpets – though only on certain occasions, few and far between.

In most neighbourhoods the women who were thought to be of easy virtue were pelted with curses and stones. Often they woke up with tar rubbed on the thresholds of their homes, slanders scrawled on their walls. At times these women could be arrested, even imprisoned. Strumpets were made to sit backwards on mules and to ride through the streets so that everybody could see what was due to the likes of them.

But the kadis were a varied bunch and just as confused as everyone else, Balaban said. As much as they loathed the harlots, they saw the trade as an evil bound to happen and a boon for the treasury, since it
was taxed. The only time it was strictly forbidden was in the month of Ramadan. During the rest of the year, whoredom was the only transgression that both was and wasn’t a crime.

The district of Eyup had, a little while back, become strict and issued a number of decrees. Taverns were closed, as were whorehouses and coffee-houses that allowed gambling. All ladies of ill-repute were banished, even those who had given up the life and married. To avoid the same fate, the painted women moved from one place to another, depending on the weather.

‘Harlotry is like the wind,’ said Balaban; ‘if you try to clap it in irons, it will slip away through the holes.’

With that they reached the door. It was opened by a black man. Upon seeing Balaban, he bowed and said, ‘Master, welcome.’

‘You own this place?’ Jahan muttered in surprise.

Balaban gave the servant a frosty glance. He turned to Jahan and, raising both hands, he said, ‘I’m a poor Romany. D’you think this a house on wheels? How can I own it? Come, let’s not waste time.’

They were ushered upstairs, where an elderly woman, her face as wrinkled as a walnut, greeted Balaban with much esteem. Next to her was a basket, inside of which was a mother cat with six kittens, curled in balls, all with the same thick, smoke-grey coat. ‘They were born here,’ she said. ‘Each named after one of my girls.’

Those girls, Jahan learned, were: Arab Fatima; Nefise the Venetian; Kurd Kamer; Narin the Circassian; Zarife the Turk; Leah the Jewess; and Ani the Armenian.

To their left and right, there were closed doors, from behind which Jahan could hear an occasional murmur. Balaban pushed Jahan into one of the rooms, made him sit on cushions, said he’d better go to check on the musicians and disappeared.

A maid appeared carrying a tray. She had flaming hair and sad scars on both sides of her face. Her eyes had a distant look, as if in search of other, long-ago evenings. She brought him water, wine and plates piled with goat’s cheese, sweetened figs, roasted almonds, pickles. Placing them on a low table, she asked if there was anything else he
would like. Jahan shook his head, fixing his stare on the patterns of the carpet. As soon as the maid left, two women walked into the room on each other’s heels. One was so fat she had three chins. Her cheeks were round and bright red. It occurred to Jahan that if Chota had been there he would have gulped them down for apples. The thought made him smile.

She beamed. ‘You like me?’

‘No,’ Jahan exclaimed. Not wanting to appear rude, he added hastily, ‘Well, yes, but not like that.’

They giggled – she more than the other. The flesh on her belly bounced up and down. Smacking her lips, she leaned forward. ‘I’ve three breasts and there’s a monster in my belly that comes out when I’m hungry. I eat men!’

Jahan looked at her in horror. They broke into another peal of laughter.

‘Could one of you call Balaban?’ Jahan said. ‘I need to see him.’

They exchanged glances, fearing their teasing might have gone too far. The room felt hot, fusty. Rising to his feet, Jahan mumbled an apology and, like an arrow, shot out of the room. At the last moment he noticed that the women, too, had stood up and were following him. Swiftly, he closed the door and slipped the bolt on it. Outside, by the stairs, he careened into the maid, who had been carrying the tray.

‘Are you all right?’ she said. ‘You going?’

‘Yes, Chota’s waiting.’

‘Is that your wife?’

Despite himself Jahan smiled. ‘Nay, he’s my elephant. Huge animal.’

Her dark eyes brightened. ‘I know what an elephant is.’

All at once the women locked in the room began to pound on the door. Jahan paled. The last thing he wanted was to be caught. He looked around in panic.

‘Come with me,’ the maid said, taking him by the hand.

Through a hatch at the back they reached a flight of creaky stairs.
She led him to her room in the attic, where the ceiling was so low they had to stoop. Yet, under the half-moon, the view out of the window was charming – a forest of tall pine trees and, beyond that, the sea in stripes of black. From up here the water seemed like something else, soft and solid, a massive silk shawl spread round the shoulders of the city.

Jahan told her what had happened downstairs, which amused her greatly. She said her name was Peri. She’d been a camp-follower in times past, but not any more. After her face had been marred – by a soldier who had seen such things on the battlefield that he had become sick in the head and took out his anger on harlots – no one desired her.

‘It’s not true no man will want you,’ said Jahan. ‘You’re prettier than those women downstairs.’

She kissed him and he kissed her back, the taste of her tongue lingering in his mouth. She caressed his hair, her fingertips soft and warm against his forehead, which was creased with worry. ‘You have never done it, have you?’ she asked.

The deep blush on his face was enough of an answer for her. She made him lie down and slowly took off his clothes. At the touch of her lips on his skin, desire surged through him. Jahan had never known that such a kingdom of pleasure existed. Only years later would he understand how lucky he had been for having someone like her to show him the way.

In the dark, while he slept next to Peri, he saw himself in an unknown land riding Chota. They pranced on top of mansions, hopping from one roof to another. Then he saw Mihrimah in the distance, wearing a dress of white linen, her hair fluttering in the wind. ‘Wait!’ he yelled. She did not hear. He shouted again. Every time he opened his mouth it was yet another lost scream.

‘Shh, wake up.’

It took Jahan a moment to remember where he was, and when he did he was drenched in cold sweat. Dressing fast, he mumbled, ‘I ought to go.’ He stopped, noticing that her face was clouding over. ‘I’m sorry. I don’t know … this, I … pay you?’

Peri turned her head. ‘You don’t owe me anything.’

Jahan went close, caressed her hair. Inside him confusion was fermenting, soon to turn into the sharpest guilt. He knew he had to leave before that occurred. He didn’t want Peri to witness what had happened between them changing into regret.

‘You’ve been talking in your sleep,’ Peri said as she opened the door.

‘Did I disturb you?’

Peri ignored the question. ‘She dwells in your heart, clearly. Whoever she is. Does she know you love her?’

Dazed, discomfited, Jahan left the house. He would never have dared to call this thing he felt for Mihrimah love, and yet when it was uttered, unveiled, by someone else, he carefully picked up the word and hugged it to his chest, not willing to let go.