The Architect's Apprentice (23 page)

‘The boy is in a bad way!’

‘So?’

‘Help him!’

‘If I were to help every witless lad, I wouldn’t have time to shit.’

‘He’s only a child.’

‘So? If you’re a mallet, knock; if you’re a peg, bear the knocking.’

Jahan bellowed, ‘Damn you! Do something or else …’

The sentence dangled in the air, unfinished. Jahan hesitated, swallowing hard. With what could he possibly threaten him? He added, wearily, ‘It means you are no different than Abdullah.’

‘Never claimed I was,’ Balaban replied.

Abdullah chuckled. His hands fondling the boy’s haunches, he said, ‘You want to save him? Come, swap places!’

An awkward silence descended as Jahan considered what to do. Balaban, Kaymak, the boy, the inmates down the corridor – it felt as though everyone was waiting for his response. Jahan felt a burning shame and yet also the need to say something remarkable. ‘I’ve an elephant. He’s trampled many a man. When I get out of here, I swear he’ll kill you.’

‘What is an elephant?’ said Abdullah, sounding confused.

‘A wild beast. Larger than a house.’

Abdullah scoffed. ‘Did you swallow hashish, eh? Where did you find it?’

‘It’s true. Elephants are the biggest animals on earth. Mine will make a hash of you.’

‘That’s a lie!’ Abdullah said.

‘You better believe him,’ Balaban broke in. ‘Got an elephant myself. His elephant and mine are husband and wife. Clever animals. Smarter than you, for sure. They could squash you like a toad.’

Now that Balaban had sided with Jahan, Abdullah took the threat more seriously. Frowning, he asked, ‘What do they eat?’

‘Human flesh,’ Jahan said.

‘Liar!’ Abdullah said, though less certain this time.

In that fleeting moment the boy freed himself from Abdullah’s embrace and ran to the other side of the cell. He did not speak a word all day. Fortunately for him, he would soon be released. Glad as Jahan was to see him safe, he could not rise from his own mat to bid him farewell. He felt tired. And thirsty. And cold. Time had come to a stop for him. In fits of delirium, he kissed Mihrimah, laughed with Sinan, walked beside Nikola, Yusuf and Davud. He saw a few
ghuls
and
ifrits
*
as well. One of them was quite pesky, insisting that he swallow a brew.

‘I don’t want anything from an
ifrit
,’ Jahan said.

‘I’m no
ifrit
, you idiot.’

Jahan forced his eyes open. ‘Balaban?’

‘Yeah, come on, drink! You’re burning up.’ Holding the cup in one hand, Balaban helped Jahan to sit up and rest his back against the wall.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘Looking after you.’

‘How did you get in?’

‘I’ve the keys to every cell in this corridor.’

‘You what?’

‘Shh, we’ll talk about that later. Say, do you have a wife?’

‘Nay.’

‘How about a lover, eh? Big bosom, warm arse. Imagine she made a sherbet for you. Take a sip, don’t break her heart.’

For the life of him Jahan could not think of Mihrimah preparing for him – or for anyone else –
sherbet
. Closing his eyes, he muttered, ‘I don’t want –’

‘Trust me and drink this.’

‘Trust
you
? You didn’t help the boy.’

Balaban sighed. ‘That boy was not one of ours. He had not sworn allegiance. If I protect everyone, how will I keep my own people loyal? I’ve enough to worry about. You know what they say, where there are two Gypsies, there are three opinions.’

‘So you only protect yours?’

‘Yes, only family!’

‘Damn your family!’

‘Watch what you say, brother. Why should I help every rogue in this hole?’

‘Why are you helping me? I was wrong. You’re worse than Abdullah.’

‘You talk to me like that and I’ll rip out your tongue.’

‘Do it,’ said Jahan. ‘Doesn’t matter any more.’

‘Unless … you are family. Then you can talk to me like that.’

Seized by a fit, Jahan coughed, his shoulders convulsing. When he found his voice again, he asked, ‘What are you talking about?’

‘Let’s make a deal. You drink this, get well. I throw a feast come this spring. I make you an honorary Romany. I don’t have to chop out your tongue.’

A ripple of laughter came from Jahan’s lips. Balaban glowered at him. ‘You think it’s funny?’

‘Nay, it’s not that,’ Jahan said. ‘I’d be honoured. It’s just … I don’t think I’ll get out of here.’

Abdullah, having eavesdropped on them from his cell, yelled, ‘Let him rot!’

‘Shut your trap!’ Balaban shouted. Lowering his voice, he said to Jahan, ‘You drink this, I make you a Gypsy. This is an excellent brew,
Daki dey
’s
*
recipe.’

In his state it didn’t occur to Jahan to ask who that was. As soon as he took a sip, he spat it out. ‘Ughh. What’s this? Disgusting.’

Balaban sighed. With one brisk move, he pulled Jahan’s head back, pressed it against his shoulder and poured the liquid down his throat. Spilling and gasping and coughing and retching, Jahan nevertheless swallowed half of it.

‘Good,’ Balaban said. Taking out a handkerchief from inside his waistcoat, he tied it around Jahan’s head. ‘This spring, you become family.’

Whether it was the magic of the brew, which Jahan consumed three times a day for the next week, or sheer luck, of which he didn’t think he had much, he overcame the illness. He even found the strength to start designing again.

In the Fortress of Seven Towers, if hope was a scarcity, shit was a superfluity. The buckets were seldom emptied and Jahan’s was no exception. A pile of excrement had accumulated in one corner. In days of old, architects had scratched their designs into plaster tracing-floors. Jahan drew on his floor with a twig and used shit as ink.

First he designed a caravanserai. Wiped it off, tried a manor house, one worthy of Mihrimah. His masterpiece was a prison building. Not vertical but horizontal. Through large openings in the ceiling it would get lots of light and fresh air. In his prison he would never place the young convicts with the old. Nor would he keep anyone in chains. The convicts could work in ateliers, learning carpentry or masonry. There would be workshops adjacent to the master building. Until this day Jahan had enjoyed designing buildings but had never really given any thought to those who would be using them and to how they would feel. Now it was different. He cared about people as much as he did about buildings.

‘What are you doing?’ Balaban asked the next time he came to check on him.

‘Drawing an alms house. This part is the kitchen. And here is the library. If every wise man in the city would teach there for a day, imagine how even the destitute could thrive.’

‘Poor thing, you’ve gone mad,’ said Balaban; but he couldn’t help asking, ‘How about the other?’

‘That’s a hospital,’ said Jahan, pointing at the second drawing. ‘For people madder than me. The building will contain them but without incarcerating them.’

‘Well, do your drawings outside. I’ve got news. The Grand Vizier pardoned you.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I have family in the palace.’

A shadow crossed Jahan’s face. ‘But why? What has changed?’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ said Balaban, throwing up his hands in exasperation. ‘Fall on your knees and thank Allah. Why are you always asking questions? When you are drowning, you grab on to a snake. You don’t say, Are you a good snake or a bad one, let me take a look at you first.’

Shortly before dawn, Jahan heard footsteps; then the key turned in the lock to his cell. Two guards entered. They took off his chains, helped him to his feet. Despite what he had heard from Balaban, the first and only thing that came to his mind was that they were going to execute him. Seeing his reluctance, they pushed him, though more gently than they had on other days. Their compassion confirmed his fear.

‘Are you going to hang me?’

‘Nay, imbecile. You’re free to leave.’

In disbelief Jahan walked towards Balaban’s cell. The Gypsies were asleep. It upset him to go without saying goodbye; he took off the handkerchief the chieftain had wrapped round his head and tied it to the iron bars. He glanced at Kaymak, who just then muttered something inaudible. Lying nearby, Abdullah was sleeping peacefully, seemingly incapable of the violence that was within him.

They strode along the corridors, up the stairs. As they ascended the floors, all Jahan could think about was who had saved him and why. Outside there was a carriage waiting for him.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked the coachman.

‘I’ve been ordered to take you to My Lady Mihrimah.’

Thus he discovered who had rescued him. From the coach window he stared at the haze over the sea, the dark green of the pine trees, the kites with their forked tails soaring high on a breeze. Everything was as he had left it. At the same time nothing was the same. When one underwent a sudden change, one expected the world, too, to somehow have become different.

Poking out his head, he called to the coachman, ‘I can’t go in this state. I beg you, take me to a
hamam
.’

‘No, I’ve got orders to take you to my Sultana straight away.’

‘
Effendi
, have mercy. How can I let her see me like this?’

The coachman shrugged. He didn’t care. ‘You should have thought of that earlier,’ he said harshly.

At these words Jahan was incensed. He no longer had any patience for heartless people. ‘Now you listen to me. I have just walked out of a dungeon. If need be, I’ll walk back into it. But before that I’ll kill you!’

The coachman grumbled. Even so, fearing an ex-convict, he stopped the carriage at the next square and swerved into a side street, looking for the nearest
hamam
.

The
hamam
owner did not want to let Jahan in and did so only after being bribed by the coachman. The moment the hot water touched his skin, Jahan winced with pain. The warmth of the marble against his toes felt like walking on clouds. He shaved for the first time in six weeks. The
tellak
, a hulky Kurd, was either irate at an injustice he had suffered just that morning or had consumed too much spice, for he scrubbed too hard – his fingers working swiftly, scarlet rings forming around his wrists from the exertion. When he was done, Jahan’s skin was as red as poppies. The odour and filth of the dungeon seeped out of his skin in black specks. Dizzy, he stood up and tottered through the mist towards the dais outside. It felt cool and fresh after the steaming hot inner chamber.

They offered him wild strawberry sherbet. While sipping his drink, for want of anything better to do, he glanced around. There was a stout man with a ruddy complexion, a merchant probably, half asleep. Another man with darting eyes and a scar that ran down his cheekbone was sitting on the edge, dangling his legs, which were covered, for the most part, with a
peshtamal
. The Kazakh next to him scrutinized Jahan and, not finding him of interest, turned his back.

In a while two boys appeared – their faces devoid of hair, their eyes big and bright. It was the stocky man who had summoned them. Jahan knew what was going on. In the private rooms boys performed services for chosen customers. Jahan thought of Kaymak and Abdullah. His back tightened, his mouth twisted into a grimace.

A voice muttered in his ear, ‘You don’t like boys.’

A man had plumped himself down on the marble beside Jahan. His chest, arms, legs, even his shoulders were covered by dark tufts of hair.

‘I don’t like what’s happening,’ Jahan said.

Though he nodded as if in agreement, the man responded with a grin. ‘You know what they say: “Boys in the summer, wives in the winter to keep you warm.” ’

‘I’d rather get a thin blanket in the summer and a quilt in the winter.’

The man chuckled but said no more. Before he left the
hamam
Jahan put on the robes the coachman had arranged. He saw the two boys outside, whispering, one of them holding an akce as though it were the key to a secret world.

That same afternoon, as he entered Mihrimah’s mansion on the shores of the Bosphorus, he was engulfed by a nervous excitement. So it hadn’t gone numb, his heart. Taking short breaths to steady himself, he knelt before her.

‘Look at you!’ Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘You are all bones.’

Jahan dared to glance up at her. Around her neck was a rope of pearls that caught the sun every time she moved. Her dress was of pure sarsenet, the colour of an evergreen. A married woman, she carried herself differently now. Behind her light veil she was beautiful – and sad. Never had anyone’s sorrow been so sweet. She was worried for him. Perhaps she even loved him. He felt as if his heart would break.

Ordering dish after dish, she urged him to taste everything. Stewed mutton, stuffed vine leaves, prunes in syrup, sugared almonds of various colours. There was something on a tiny plate Jahan had never had before – caviar. Fate was odd. The day before he was drawing designs on the floor with shit. Now he was perched on silk cushions, eating caviar from the hand of his beloved. And as he closed his eyes for a moment, he could not tell which was real and which someone else’s life.

‘You used to tell me stories,’ Mihrimah said, in a voice that barely rose above a whisper. ‘Do you remember?’

‘How could I forget, your Highness?’

‘Everything was different back then. We were only children. One needs to be a child to revel fully in a tale, don’t you think? Still, even as adults we can –’

She was about to say more when her words were interrupted by the sound of footsteps on the great staircase. Jahan’s back straightened, as it occurred to him that it could be her husband, Rustem Pasha. When he turned his head he saw Hesna Khatun with a little girl by her side. The child made a deep obeisance before her mother and fixed her large brown eyes on Jahan.

‘Aisha, my delight, I want you to greet our guest. He is a talented architect. He and Master Sinan made those beautiful mosques that we always talk about.’

‘Yes, Mother,’ the child said without a trace of interest.

‘He has also taken care of the white elephant,’ Mihrimah added.

Aisha’s face lit up. ‘Are you the one who helped the elephant to drink his mama’s milk?’

Jahan drew in a breath. The stories he had once told Mihrimah, she must have recounted to her daughter. The realization made him smile, as if he had penetrated the intimacy of this house and become a part of its bedtime conversations without even knowing. Over the child’s head his eyes met Mihrimah’s. An understanding passed between them, like a soft rustle of wind.

‘Would your Excellency like to come to see the elephant some day?’ Jahan asked the girl.

Aisha pursed her lips, as if to say she might or she might not. Instead of looking at her mother for permission, she glanced up at Hesna Khatun, who had been in the background, silently watching them.

Jahan’s eyes moved to the nursemaid. She had aged: her cheeks had shrivelled up like withered leaves. But even the unmistakable sternness of her gaze didn’t disrupt Jahan’s line of thinking. This was what his life could have been like if only he had been fortunate enough to be in Rustem Pasha’s shoes – this girl would be his daughter, these
walls his shield against the world, this splendid view from the window the reality he woke up to every morning and the Princess he secretly loved his official wife. Never before, not even in his darkest hours in the dungeon, had he wished for another man’s death the way he did now.

He caught a blur of movement. Hesna Khatun was staring at him with unblinking eyes, her lips moving fast, as if she were talking to someone. Jahan’s skin turned to gooseflesh. He knew she had read his mind, though he couldn’t explain how – and that she would find some way of using this against him.