The Water Diviner (28 page)

Connor sits slumped forwards over his knees on the low bench in the narrow changing booth, forearms leaning heavily on his naked thighs. His hands hang, impotent, between his legs; broad palms, strong, flat fingers, all riven with deep creases permanently stained with the red dirt of home.

Where to now? Is this really the end?

He seems to have exhausted his alternatives. The British are desperate to see the back of him, and with the way he left things, he can hardly expect a welcoming committee at the Otel Troya – the one place in this overwhelming city where he was beginning to feel comfortable. Worst of all, if Hasan and Jemal are right, there seems little hope of finding Art still alive.

The walls press in on him. The sound of incomprehensible babbling comes from outside the door and echoes around inside his head. The room is muggy and smells musty, heavy with the stench of wet skin, sweaty feet and damp hair. He shuts his eyes and transports himself to his dusty red plains, the vast sky an impossible blue and air so hot and dry it sears the lungs. The windmill turns with a hypnotic rhythm.

On his farm Connor knows and accepts the way of the land – doesn’t fight it, instead submits to its sovereignty and marvels at its fickleness. He has no choice. Nature wreaks havoc on his small community – droughts that last so long that young children are terrified when they first see rain falling from the sky; fires that consume every living thing in their path, leaving fields of charred, contorted carcasses, blackened tree stumps and stubble where before vast plains of whispering wheat grew. But those disasters are familiar to him; they are old friends in adversity, even.

He wonders why he finds everything here so difficult, why he cannot bring himself to accept what seems obvious to everyone else. His boys are all dead. God knows it would be a relief to stop pushing, even for a moment, and just accept the truth.

But if Art died, terrified and alone, in a camp far from his brothers, his bones now lie in alien soil too, except they are untended and unmourned. The thought makes Connor feel bereft – physically ill, and quite desperate. He must find him.

A sudden, sharp rap at his door. ‘Connor Bey?’

‘Yes, Hasan?’

‘Jemal has told me of the situation with the men at your hotel. Now we are dining at the
meyhane
you followed me to. Perhaps you should join us and return for your things later.’

Connor shuts his eyes. ‘Thank you. Yes.’ In the absence of anywhere to sleep that night, it was his only real option.

‘The invisible wind carries us throughout the world. Remember God so that you forget yourself . . .
Mustafa Kemal!
’ Jemal bellows, butchering Rumi. His eyes are closed, one hand upraised, clutching a tall, narrow glass filled to the brim with a cloudy liquor. The other men in the room, all huddled around small, marble-topped tables, raise their glasses and echo Jemal’s raucous toast.

‘
Mustafa Kemal!
’ As one, they throw back their heads and down their drinks in a single hit.

‘Who is he toasting?’ Connor asks.

Hasan observes his sergeant fondly.

‘Turkey’s future.’

He offers the Australian a dish glazed with a foliate blue pattern that contains salty dried black olives. Connor shakes his head. ‘No, thank you. Not to my liking, I’m afraid.’

Hasan indicates a dish of nuts sitting on the table. Connor smiles tightly. His misgiving is plain to see as he gingerly picks a whole pistachio from the bowl and pops it into his mouth. Before Hasan can stop him, Connor crunches down on the shell, wincing as it shatters against his tongue.

‘It is called an
antep fıstık
. But you must open it first. Like this,’ Hasan explains, picking a nut from the bowl as Connor spits the shards from his mouth. The Turk digs his thumbnail into the tiny split between the two shell halves and pops the pistachio open. Connor makes another, more successful, attempt and pops the nut into his mouth. Surprised, he smiles as he bites down on the sweet and fragrant nut.

‘This isn’t bad. Delicious, really.’

Hasan watches the Australian, who wears his unease like an ill-fitting suit. Connor flinches and starts, his eyes darting from one side of the room to the other, totally at odds with his environment. But Hasan can tell that he is a man not easily diverted from his course.

In the
hamam
Hasan didn’t have the heart to tell Connor the news from Anatolia. Every day, survivors flood into Constantinople, fleeing the massacres. They carry with them tales of atrocities and brutality that beggar belief. As the Hellenic army makes sorties into the Turkish countryside from Smyrna, Turkish and Greek neighbours turn on each other, and centuries of festering acrimony accrued for real and imagined episodes of dispossession and dishonour incite men to rape and disembowel; to tear flesh from bone. It’s inconceivable to Hasan that anyone, least of all a foreign prisoner of war, would willingly remain in the midst of such mayhem. But he can’t find it in himself to shatter what remains of Connor’s hope.

Jemal staggers over to the table, wielding a bottle of raki like a weapon. He slops a generous serve of the clear liquid into three glasses, and adds a dash of water from a jug that sits by Connor’s elbow, turning the alcohol a milky white.

‘Now, raki becomes
aslan süt
– lion’s milk!’ Jemal extends one of the glasses to Connor. ‘Drink, Australian!’

Connor lifts the glass to his nose and sniffs. ‘That smells good. Like liquorice.’ He takes a large sip and the air is driven from his lungs. He coughs, eyes watering.

Having taken a deep draught of his own raki, Jemal stands in the centre of the room, head tilted to the side and both arms held at shoulder height, one palm facing upwards to the ceiling, the other turned down towards the dusty floor of the
meyhane
. He begins to spin, clumsily and slowly.

‘Outside, all is madness. We are drunk with it. Defeat. Pain. Grief. Inside – in the middle, all is quiet.’ Jemal lowers his finger to his lips. ‘Shh.’

Hasan shakes his head. ‘Now he’s a Sufi. He always finds religion in raki.’

Just as suddenly as he started, Jemal stops spinning and stands stock still in the centre of the floor. The men gathered in clusters around the room pay him little mind, remaining deep in conversation, brows furrowed and hands gesticulating emphatically. Jemal shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. He begins to sing in a voice that is surprisingly melodious for such a bear of a man. He sways in time and claps the rhythm on hands held high. Faces turn towards him, smiling, recognising the tune, transported to the distant pine-clad mountains in the Anatolian hinterland through the force of Jemal’s lyrical warbling. They begin to join in, tapping bottles and glasses with metal spoons, drumming on the tables and slapping their thighs. Jemal warms to the attention, begins to dip and dance as he sings. The song catches the room like a brushfire and other voices join his as he lifts the tempo, now stomping and chanting towards a crescendo. Men sway together, arm in arm.

Jemal spins back to where Connor sits with Hasan and pulls back a chair, collapsing into it. Hasan leans forwards, shouting to Connor above the din.

‘He is an enthusiastic singer but the worst sergeant in the whole Ottoman Army. Three times I have saved this man’s life. Never once in battle!’

Spilling more raki into their three glasses, Jemal affectionately goads Hasan.

‘Look at him. Like a peacock with a big moustache and gold buttons . . . “I love my wife, I love my children, I have a big stick up my arsehole”.’

Despite himself, Connor laughs.

Jemal turns towards Connor and whispers conspiratorially, ‘Tonight we kill this man together, yes? You and me. We kill him with lion’s milk.
Şerefe!
Forget!’

Connor raises his glass and takes a tentative sip. ‘
Şerefe
.’

Shaking his head, Jemal reverts to Turkish.

‘I don’t trust him. He doesn’t drink like a man.’

T
he night is still and the air heavy. Connor finds his way along darkened streets; only a few lanterns glow in the windows of the terraced buildings he passes as he labours up the steep incline towards the crest of a hill. Shadows shift and melt as low-slung clouds of sea mist scud across the face of the moon. The tread of his heavy work boots rings and ricochets along the alleys, inciting a chorus of stray dog calls. He pauses, listens, certain he is being followed.

A single light still burns in the foyer of the Otel Troya. Connor can’t see any movement on the ground level; it is late, and the household sleeps. He quietly mounts the steps, embarrassed by his furtive approach. This is not his way. He tries the lustrous brass door handle, polished to a rich patina by many years of frequent use. To his relief, it is unlocked and gives way, allowing Connor to push the door open. If the front door had been locked, he wasn’t sure what he would have done – he probably would have had no choice but to wake Ayshe or Orhan, the thought of which mortifies him.

He edges into the foyer, looking around for his suitcase. Moving towards the front desk, he notices a light on in the salon.

‘Mr Connor?’

In the half-light, he can make out Ayshe seated in one of the salon’s high-backed brocade armchairs. He draws breath. She is beautiful.

‘I am so sorry I disturbed you. I’m just here to pick up my bag . . .’

Ayshe stands and crosses into the foyer, hand outstretched in protest.

‘No, I’m glad you came. I was waiting, hoping you would return. I wish to apologise for all I said. I was angry. I meant none of it.’

Given the terms on which they parted company, this is not the reception Connor was expecting. He is struck with remorse.

‘It is I who must apologise. I presumed too much . . .’

‘It is difficult – even for those of us who live here.’

‘You were right. I filled my sons’ heads with heroic nonsense . . . God, King and Country . . . my rowdy, wilful and loving sons.’ Uncontrollable grief wells up from a dark place. ‘It was my job to steer them to manhood, and I failed them.’

She gazes up into his eyes. ‘I measure a man by how much he loves his children, not by what the world has done to them.’

They both fall silent. Neither knows what to say.

Connor breaks the impasse. ‘Well, if you can just direct me to my suitcase, I will bid you good night. I’m sorry again for troubling you . . .’

‘But where will you stay tonight? You are leaving on the British boat tomorrow, yes? Omer won’t return before then. You may have your room until the morning comes.’

Having resigned himself to the necessity of an uncomfortable night spent propped up somewhere down on the docks waiting for the sun to rise, Connor is relieved.

‘Thank you. You are very kind.’

Ayshe moves towards the reception desk. She gestures apologetically at the mortal remains of Connor’s suitcase, which sits on a small desk.

‘Orhan and I tried to fix it, but the latch is broken. Tomorrow morning I will give you a rope to tie it closed before you leave.’

Crossing to where it lies, Connor lifts the lid, and relief floods through him when he sees Art’s diary and the copy of
The Arabian Nights
sitting on top of the neatly folded but dusty clothes. He takes the diary and slips it carefully inside his breast pocket. Then he holds
The Arabian Nights
out to Ayshe.

‘I won’t need my guide book anymore. Do you think Orhan would like it?’

‘I know he would,’ she replies, taking the book in both hands and smiling wistfully.

Connor gathers the broken suitcase under his arm. ‘Thank you again.’ He moves towards the stairs. ‘They will be here for me in the morning to make sure I’m on that boat. Good night to you.’

‘Mr Connor?’

He halts.

‘Before you go, may I ask one small favour of you?’

Connor sits at the long stone bench that runs along the wall in the kitchen. Atop the chipped and pitted surface is an array of small dishes, some glazed and shimmering like gems, embellished with fluid brushstrokes of turquoise, emerald green and carmine red, others formed from rosy sheets of copper engraved and stamped with geometric patterns. Each dish contains something different and, presumably – hopefully – edible. Tiny purple cubes glisten, sprinkled with a finely chopped green herb; a swirl of buttery yellow is topped with a puff of rust-red powder and drops of a shiny green oil; bright red paste is flecked with orange flakes. Connor recognises an ingredient or two here and there, but he can’t put a name to any of the dishes.