The Water Diviner (26 page)

The Red Cross nurse has overcome her initial surprise at Connor’s sudden entrance and very bedraggled appearance. Hair still damp and shirt and pants sodden from the water fight, he cuts an unconventional figure. He attempts to smooth down his hair with his palms, but the light brown strands stick up in errant, unflattering clumps.

In a corner of the courtyard visible through the door of the old hospital a fire burns brightly in a huge metal drum, fuelled by a mountain of old manila folders and files fed into the flames by two Turkish workers.

‘We’re packing up here,’ she explains. ‘Heading home.’

‘But what about the prisoners of war?’ Connor persists.

‘To tell you the truth, sir, there weren’t many of those. And those who did come through here couldn’t wait to go home. Most of them hadn’t seen their families in years.’

‘Is there anywhere else . . . any other people . . . who might be able to help me?’

The nurse sees the desperation in his eyes. She lowers her voice, speaking soothingly.

‘The ones who lived couldn’t get out of this place quickly enough. If your son hasn’t come back to you . . . well, I’m very sorry to say it, but it’s likely he didn’t make it. The camps were brutal places, I’m told.’

Connor stares into the rising flames despondently, watching them consume page after page of military records, sending ash and black smoke billowing into the sky.

He is overwhelmed, broken.

T
he coffee sits, muddy and unappetising, by Connor’s hand.

I suppose in time I might acquire a taste for it.
He takes a sip.
Unlikely.

Two solitary Turkish men sit at single tables in the salon. One reads the newspaper while absently fiddling with a lavishly coiffed moustache. The other gazes pensively out into the garden, tapping a manicured fingertip on the tabletop. With four guests in residence, including its permanent habitué, Natalia, the Otel Troya is busier than it has been in many years.

Ayshe moves about the salon, serving her guests an afternoon tea of rosewater
lokum
, dusted with icing sugar on tiny silver dishes, and sweet Turkish coffee. Connor is consumed by his thoughts, trying to plan his next step. Ayshe returns to his table, pointing to the cup by his side.

‘Take good care. Your fate is in there, you know.’

He lifts the cup and saucer, and offers them to her.

‘No one else has been able to help me. Maybe you can tell me what to do next.’

‘It is a silly peasant game.’ She laughs and hands it back to Connor.

‘And you have to drink it first! But make sure you only drink from one side of the cup, otherwise it will not work.’

Throwing back his head, he grimaces as he consumes the thick, grainy coffee in a single gulp.

Ayshe holds out her hand and sits in the seat opposite Connor. ‘Here . . . give it to me.’

She places the saucer on top of the cup and slides it back across the table to Connor.

‘Careful. Hold the saucer on top and make three circles in the same direction as a clock turns. Like this . . .’ Ayshe mimics holding the cup, hands rotating at chest level. Amused, Connor plays along, following her instructions.

She takes the cup back and quickly flips it so it sits, inverted, on the saucer.

‘Now we wait.’ She smiles. ‘You know, we decide everything here by coffee. Business, holidays, even our husbands.’

‘And that works?’

‘Of course, it is the best way. When two families come together to arrange a marriage, the young girl serves her parents coffee. If it is sweet, they know she approves of the match. If it is bitter – go away.’ She waves a dismissive hand. ‘The more sugar, the deeper her love.’

‘. . . And with your husband?’

‘I used the whole bowl of sugar.’ She laughs at the memory. ‘I thought my parents were going to be sick.’ Ayshe shifts in her seat, seeming suddenly conscious of the disapproving glares of the other guests.

She changes the subject. ‘Now. Your coffee. What does it tell us?’

Ayshe lifts the delicate bone-china cup and gazes at the smear of coffee grounds in its interior. ‘I see a stubborn man . . .’

‘No, you must have someone else’s cup,’ Connor retorts.

‘No, I see a farmer who eats only boiled eggs, even in a city where there is a woman . . . see, there she is,’ Ayshe points into the cup. ‘A woman who is the best cook in all of Turkey.’

‘That is a lot of detail in a very small cup.’

Ayshe lowers her voice and leans in conspiratorially. ‘Everything is in the coffee. The cup never lies.’

‘Does it say if this cook is beautiful?’

She flushes and leans back in her seat, her gaze darting to the two Turkish men in the room. The Australian locks eyes with her.

‘Tell me what it really says,’ he urges her.

No longer playing, Ayshe peers intently into the cup. Suddenly she rises to her feet.

‘It is all peasant nonsense.’ She takes Connor’s coffee cup and saucer and walks quickly away.

As she hurries towards the kitchen, Ayshe is alarmed to see Omer standing in the doorway. As promised, he has arrived to set things straight with her son. But the dark expression on his face tells her that he has witnessed her exchange with Connor, and he is furious. She pushes past him and walks quickly down the hallway, her brother-in-law following in her wake.

Once they reach the privacy of the kitchen, Omer turns on her. ‘You are not dressed in black? Where is Orhan?’

Ayshe slams the coffee cup down on the bench and spins to face him, arms crossed defensively across her chest. After a night of troubled sleep during which she picked and unpicked her options, she knew there would be no easy path for her or her family. But after watching her son at the cistern this morning and seeing how happy he could be, and knowing that a life with Omer and his wife would be constrained by duty and starved of love and levity, she has made up her mind.

‘Until I’m certain Turgut is dead, I can’t . . .’

‘Do you take me for a fool?’

‘No, and your offer is most generous.’

Omer’s fury rises to fever pitch. ‘We both know – everyone but Orhan knows. My brother is in Paradise!’

Ayshe’s voice lifts to match his, her fear and frustration building. ‘I am not ready to re-marry.’

‘You came to my house and we agreed. You would now humiliate me in front of my wife and daughters?’

‘I cannot be any man’s second wife.’

‘Then you will never marry again. Who else would take you as well as your father and son? And you think only of yourself, but this marriage is not for you. It is for Orhan. He needs a father. He will become my son.’

The grim expression of resolve on Ayshe’s face leaves Omer in no doubt that she is not going to change her mind.

‘I have a duty to my brother! It is our way!’

Ayshe shakes her head. ‘No. It is your way.’

‘This charade can’t continue. It is wrong.’ Omer steps into the hallway and calls out to his nephew. ‘Orhan! Come!’

Ayshe has done everything in her power to avoid this moment for the past four years. The thought of it – knowing what it will do to her son – makes her knees buckle. She whispers, ‘Please. Not this way. I beg you.’

Omer glares at her venomously. ‘It’s your pride that has done this. Orhan!’

Ayshe knows that Orhan always dreads heeding his uncle’s call – most of the time it is accompanied by a clip to the ear and a volley of stern words. And the scene he confronts when he arrives in the kitchen – his mother’s blanched face and eyes glistening with tears, and Omer’s mouth set in a grim line, black eyes glinting – doesn’t bode well. He moves to his mother’s side and takes her hand.

‘What have I done?’

She looks down at him. ‘Nothing, cherub. Go away,’ she urges him. ‘Leave us.’

Moving across the kitchen, Omer takes the boy’s other hand. ‘Orhan . . .’ He speaks gently, but with resolve. ‘Your father is dead. He has been dead for four years. Your mother has lied to you.’

Ayshe speaks over Omer, attempting to drown out his words. She takes Orhan’s face in her hands and looks into his eyes. ‘Don’t listen, my darling boy. Don’t listen.’

Pushing Ayshe’s hands away, Omer draws the boy to face him. ‘Do you understand?’

The blood drains from Orhan’s face. ‘Mother? . . . Please?’ He searches his mother’s face, and can see from her grief that his uncle has spoken the truth.

Omer continues as Ayshe grapples to put a hand over his mouth. He flings her aside.

‘Your father is a martyr, Orhan. Be proud.’

His mouth wide with horror and disbelief, Orhan breaks away from his uncle and runs into the hallway in tears.

Ayshe screams. ‘You will never have him. You will never have me or this place!’

‘You think you are too good for me and my home?’ Omer spits. ‘You are no better than the slut upstairs!’

Years of accumulated anguish and grief explode in the pit of Ayshe’s stomach. She strikes Omer on the cheek with the flat of her hand and shrieks, ‘That is why Allah never gave you a son!’

The sound of raised Turkish voices finds its way into the salon. Connor stands and moves towards the doorway, unsure what to do. There’s no doubt at all that Ayshe is in distress, but she’s in the kitchen with her brother-in-law; it’s a family matter. Connor knows from bitter experience he can expect no thanks for interfering in private affairs. He is standing awkwardly in the hallway, hands buried in his pockets, when Orhan barrels into him.

‘Steady on, mate! What’s the matter?’

Orhan flings his arms around Connor’s waist and buries his face in his shirt. Connor encircles the boy in his arms, patting his back. In the kitchen, the barrage continues. Connor can’t understand exactly what’s being said, but there’s no mistaking the fury and vitriol in their voices. Orhan covers his ears, trying to block out the hate.

The stinging sound of a slap rings through the hotel, followed by a scuffle, pots falling to the stone floor. Connor can no longer restrain himself. He squeezes Orhan’s shoulder. ‘Stay here, son.’

He marches into the kitchen in time to see Omer bring an angry open palm down on Ayshe’s face. Her knees give way and she slumps to the floor, one hand clutching the side of her face. Her brother-in-law has her by the arm, his thin fingers digging into her soft, white forearm, as he raises his other hand to slap her again. Hot rage explodes behind Connor’s eyes. He propels himself forwards and swings the crook of his elbow around Omer’s neck, dragging him away from Ayshe and flinging him to the floor. Shocked, the Turkish man kneels on the tiles. With two hands, Connor grabs his collar and lifts him to his feet. He clenches his calloused fist, readying to strike, but before he can draw back his arm, Ayshe pushes her way between the two men and holds out her hands, pressing against Connor’s chest, restraining him.

‘Stop! Stop! You fool. This is not your business!’

Relinquishing his grip on Omer’s crisply starched linen shirt, Connor stares at Ayshe, perplexed.

Fists raised, Omer squares up to Connor and glares venomously at the Australian, veins throbbing at his temples and the tendons in his neck strung out like piano wires as he grinds his teeth in fury. Without glancing away, he lashes out at Ayshe .

‘Now I see. This is what you want. The enemy.’

Ayshe snaps back. ‘It has nothing to do with him.’

‘I have eyes. You were seen together at the cistern. My brother was a fool.’ Omer spits a thick nugget of phlegm onto the floor. He straightens his collar and smooths down his heavily pomaded black hair, scornfully taking in Connor’s well-worn work boots and labourer’s hands. Omer continues his tirade.

‘This donkey’s son knows not one word of our tongue. And you? You disgrace this family.’ Turning, Omer stalks out of the kitchen.

When Ayshe whips around to face Connor, he sees she is enraged. ‘Go! You have offended his honour!’

Connor is confused by her reaction, and attempts to explain himself. ‘He struck you.’

‘Yes. But I hit him.’ She scoffs. ‘You understand
nothing
! You will never understand.’

‘I thought it was the right thing to do.’