The Winter Thief (17 page)

B
Y THE TIME
K
AMIL
reached Üsküdar, it was early afternoon. It had taken him two hours to ride back to his house in Beshiktash, which was the closest point across the Bosphorus from Üsküdar, and for his boatman, Bedri, to row him and his servant, Yakup, across the strait. They came armed with knives and pistols. He also had sent word to Omar. Feride might well be staying with friends in Üsküdar. But his conversation with Yorg Pasha and his meeting with Vahid had raised his level of caution, and he felt inexplicably tense. If he were indeed a dog, Kamil thought, his hackles would be raised.

Upon arriving in Üsküdar, they hired a carriage and drove up the hill to the Valide Mosque. Kamil instructed Bedri to wait by the carriage while he and Yakup went inside. Instead of a doorkeeper, a policeman opened the gate and challenged them to identify themselves. When Kamil told him he was the magistrate of Beyoglu, the chastened policeman ushered them into the courtyard and hurried to fetch the director.

Kamil noticed two other policemen standing guard in front of a padlocked door.

“Find out what’s going on here,” he told Yakup in a low voice. The tall, impeccably dressed servant sagged into the posture of a defeated workingman and twisted his sash around to expose its plain cotton lining. He then lifted his fez and ran a hand through his hair, making it stick out wildly. His weapons concealed inside the folds of his wide trousers, he loped off in the direction of the kitchen, following the smell of freshly baked bread.

The director of the Valide Mosque hospital, a thin man with a meager frizz of hair jutting from beneath his fez, hurried over, trailed by the worried-looking policeman.

“Kamil Pasha, selam aleykum. Welcome to our hospital,” the director said, holding out his hand.

“Aleykum selam.” Kamil shook his hand and looked around curiously. “Why are there so many policemen here?”

The director looked flustered. “We had some suspicious visitors last night and then, Allah protect us, two murders,” he added in a low voice.

“Who?” Kamil’s voice caught. Were Feride and Elif dead?

“The doorkeeper and a patient.”

Kamil breathed again. “And the visitors?”

“That’s the odd thing.” He led Kamil to a table in a small winter garden, heated by a stove, and bade him sit, then summoned a servant to bring cups of coffee. “The wife of Huseyin Pasha turned up last night, accompanied by a doctor from the palace and a Frankish man. She told me her husband had been badly burned and was missing. For some reason, she thought he was here. I told them we had no burn patients, but they looked around the wards anyway. There was a man with his face bandaged, and she thought for a moment it was her husband, until I explained that the patient was a local merchant with facial eczema, which we were treating with a sulfur poultice.”

“Where are they now?” Kamil broke in impatiently.

“They spent the night here, and the next morning we found the doorkeeper and the man with eczema dead. The police were summoned, of course. They suspected the visitors of having something to do with the murders. I told them it was absurd to think that a distinguished hanoum or the doctor could have had anything to do with it. The foreign man, I can’t say. There was something odd about him.” He stood and took up a watering can.” On the other hand,” he continued, eyeing the soil in each pot before adding a calibrated stream of water, “the patient who was killed was the man the hanoum had mistaken for her husband. Surely there’s something important in that.” He turned toward Kamil, the half-empty can dangling from his hand. “It’s as if they meant to kill Huseyin Pasha.” He put down the can and sat again, waiting silently while an orderly placed a cup of coffee before each man.

Kamil’s nerves were so taut that the click of cup on saucer sounded as loud as an explosion.

“The police wanted to detain them,” the director went on, “but they left, which I thought was wise at the time. But this morning the hanoum returned. She and her associates said they had been attacked on the road. The doctor and one of their servants are quite badly wounded.”

Kamil rose, knocking against the table and spilling the coffee. “And the women?”

Looking confused, the director unfolded his lanky body from the chair. “There was only one woman, Huseyin Pasha’s wife. She and the foreign man accompanied the wounded here.”

“Where are they?” Kamil grasped the back of his chair, his knuckles white.

“The police have them locked up,” the director explained in an anxious voice, making propitiatory motions toward Kamil with his hands. “I told them they couldn’t treat exalted personages like that, but it was like talking to stone. I did what I could to make them comfortable. I put the hanoum in the guest room. The Frank was covered in blood and by rights should be in the infirmary, but the police took him away.” The director righted Kamil’s cup. “Would you like to see them?”

Kamil stood by the door, barely able to control his impatience as the director opened it and preceded him out into the hospital courtyard.

“I can’t tell you what a relief it is that you’re here, Magistrate,” the director babbled as he led Kamil through the arcade and across the path to the padlocked door Kamil had noticed when he arrived. A policeman in a gray wool uniform and peaked helmet, armed with a rifle and sidearm, slouched against the wall beside the door. When he saw Kamil and the director, he jumped to attention.

“Kamil Pasha would like to speak with Huseyin Pasha’s wife,” the director told him.

The policeman threw back his shoulders and proclaimed loudly, “Impossible without permission from my commander.”

“Where is your commander?” the director asked.

Before the man could answer, Kamil stepped close to his face and snapped, “Open it. I am a special prosecutor for the sultan.”

The policeman fell back, “Of course, Your Eminence.” He bowed, clutching his fist to his heart. “I didn’t know. I wasn’t told.”

“Kamil!” he heard Feride cry out through the window.

The guard pulled the key from his pocket. Kamil grabbed it from him, unlocked the door, and flung it open. Feride ran into his arms.

“My sister,” he barked at the director and the astonished policeman.

Kamil was appalled at Feride’s appearance. Her charshaf was ripped and spattered with mud and what looked like blood. Her face was bruised and strands of hair escaped from beneath her veil. She hadn’t bothered to cover her face, and he could see that her lip was swollen.

“Allah protect us,” he called out. “What’s happened to you?”

Instead of answering, she pulled her veil across her face and pleaded, “Where’s Elif? You must find her.” Her voice had an edge of hysteria.

Admonishing the director to take care of Feride, Kamil grabbed the policeman by the back of his uniform. “Where’s the foreign man?” He felt deep in his bones that she was in great danger. She was so frail in body and lately in spirit that it would take little to snuff out the flame.

The policeman led Kamil along an unlit hallway and unlocked a door.

Kamil stepped inside, but at first saw nothing in the darkness. His eyes adjusted quickly, and he saw Elif slumped against the wall, covered in blood. He enveloped her in his arms and carried her out.

V
ERA WOKE IN A ROOM
with an icon of the Blessed Virgin on the wall before the bed and lace curtains at the sunny window. It took her several moments before she understood where she was.

The Agopian girl was sitting beside the bed, embroidering. She ran from the room, calling, “Mama, Papa, she’s awake.”

Madame Agopian bustled in carrying a dress and an armful of other garments. “Lena, welcome back to us. I’m sure a sleep did you good. When you’re ready, we can serve a late lunch.” She piled the clothing at the end of the bed. “I’ve had a few things altered to fit you. My seamstress can come and make any last-minute adjustments.” She looked down at the pile, frowning. “I didn’t want to wake you, you see, so I chose some things I thought would be practical. I hope you like them, but if not, please tell me and we’ll find something else. You will do that for me?”

Her face was so creased with worry that Vera almost laughed. She was certain she would never again worry about the cut of her clothing. “Thank you, madame. I’m sure it’s lovely. You’ve been so generous and kind.” She sat up and flinched. Her whole body ached. Her feet were blistered and scraped and throbbed beneath the bandages. She fingered the brushlike swatch where Vahid had cut off her hair.

When she had dressed, she joined the family in the dining room. Ravenous, she devoured the lamb and vegetable stew set before her and drank several glasses of water.

“Eat more, child,” Madame Agopian urged Vera, telling the maid to refill her plate. Her daughter watched their guest from beneath lowered lids.

Monsieur Agopian sent his plate away untouched. “Are you planning to return to Geneva?” he asked Vera. “I can arrange a berth for you on the next ship. I’ll cover the cost, so you needn’t worry. You must be anxious to get home.” At Madame Agopian’s startled glance, he added, “There’s no rush, none at all, but if I can be of help…”

It seemed to Vera that he was in a hurry for her to leave. Perhaps she should take him up on his offer. She could be in Geneva within the week. But she couldn’t leave without learning what had befallen Gabriel, and she wondered what to do about Sosi. If Sosi had been recaptured and Vera remained silent, the girl would be lost. Should she try to find her family? Gabriel had mentioned that his cell was based in Kurtulush, but she had no idea where that was. She wondered what Gabriel would do and found that she couldn’t imagine.

They moved to the sitting room. Sleep had cleared her mind, and she began to think about her predicament and what to do. Vahid knew her by the name Lena Balian. She realized that the only person who knew her by that name, and who could have told Vahid, was the grandfatherly gentleman sitting here before her, smoking his pipe. Yet without the Agopians’ help, she didn’t know what to do about Gabriel and Sosi. She was saddened by the thought that she couldn’t trust any of them. Still, if Vahid learned she was here, not only she but the Agopian family would be in danger.

When Madame Agopian and her daughter left the room, Vera asked, “Do you find it easy to be a publisher here in Istanbul, monsieur? I had the impression from our first conversation that you were under some pressure by the state.”

“Do you know the fable of the fig tree?” Monsieur Agopian asked her.

Vera shook her head no.

“One day the gardener asked the fig tree, ‘Why do you spread your branches so low to the ground?’ The fig tree replied, ‘I have many enemies. I bend low so that they won’t break my branches, and I serve them sweetness so that they forget evil.’”

Vera thought about this for a few moments, then asked, “Doesn’t that mean you condone evil?’”

“Not at all, my dear girl. It means that the weak must try to sweeten the bitterness of the strong by being humble and by serving them. We don’t really have another alternative.”

“You could grow the fruit higher and starve them.”

He chuckled at her naïveté. “They’d just pull the branches down or come with an ax. What have we gained by that? No, we must think of survival. There are good times and bad. We make our peace with the bad and save our strength to take advantage of the good.”

“But people aren’t trees,” Vera protested. “People can do things differently. They could themselves take up the ax.”

Monsieur Agopian stared at her for a moment, then said gently, “Young people always believe that survival is their God-given right, if they even think about it at all. But as we get older, we realize how weak and vulnerable we are—and the people we love.” He glanced at the door through which his wife and daughter had disappeared.

Vera nodded, her suspicion of the publisher suddenly softened by understanding. He had so much more to lose than she did. But she couldn’t ask him to help her find Gabriel and Sosi, and she knew that she had to leave. She wished she could report Sosi’s imprisonment to someone in authority she could trust. There seemed no one left in the world who matched that description.

K
AMIL, ACCOMPANIED BY
Feride, carried Elif’s limp body into the infirmary and laid her on a bed. Her hair, face, and hands were crusted with dried blood and her clothes stiff with it. There were no other patients in the room, and Kamil told the hospital director to lock the door. Feride held Elif’s hand.

“Elif is a woman,” Kamil explained to the director. “I want no one but you to see to her.”

The director didn’t seem surprised. “I thought he seemed rather odd, not a boy, not a man. I wondered for a moment if he had been castrated. No matter. Let’s tend to her.”

He called for hot water, bandages, salve, and a tisane to be made from some herbs from his garden. While Kamil waited by the door for the supplies, the director pulled over a mangal to heat the area by the bed. When the hot water arrived, Feride washed Elif’s face and hands, which were covered with cuts. The deep ones began to bleed again. The director smoothed on a salve, then wrapped Elif’s hands in bandages. He examined her face, but when the blood and filth had been washed off, it appeared as pale and unmarred and distant as the moon.

Gently, Feride peeled off Elif’s shirt and trousers, exposing her fragile, birdlike chest, her small, pointed breasts, and hips slender as a boy’s. On the inside of her thighs, Feride saw two ragged scars in the shape of carnations, as if the skin had been scraped or burned away and had regrown pale and puckered. She wondered what could have caused them. There were no recent wounds that she could see, so she tucked a quilt around her.

Kamil sat beside Elif’s unmoving body and found that his mind had gone entirely blank. He had been too busy with work to protect the two people he loved most in the world. Now that it was too late, he understood that none of his work counted for even a kurush against their lives.

“Why isn’t she awake?” Feride asked the director.

“I don’t know,” the surgeon admitted. “Did she fall or bump her head?”

“She walked here with me, but she hasn’t spoken in some time—since we were in the vineyards. It’s as if her body was there but she wasn’t in it.”

“What happened in the vineyards?” Kamil asked. “Why was she so covered in blood?”

Feride told them of the attack and what she thought she had seen in the vineyard.

“She couldn’t have killed three men by herself,” Kamil said, his speech slow and thick.

“Maybe I just saw her standing over the bodies,” Feride admitted. “I’m not sure now. It was dark and I was frightened.”

“I’ve seen the bodies,” the director said. “The police brought them here. A woman of her size would have been no match for them. Likely they were killed by your men and Elif Hanoum witnessed it.”

“Nissim was the Camondo family’s boatman. Someone should let them know,” Feride suggested, her voice flat.

“I’ll take care of that, chère hanoum.” The director gently raised one of Elif’s eyelids to examine her pupil. He slapped her lightly on the cheek, but there was no response. “It’s shock. I’ve seen it happen to men after battle.”

“How long does it last?”

“Sometimes they wake up and it’s over. Sometimes it’s a lifetime.”

Kamil bowed his head until it rested on the quilt beside Elif’s matted hair.