The Water Diviner (25 page)

Ayshe’s feelings for Connor have caught her by surprise, softening in a way she could never have anticipated. For so long, Australia and its menfolk had loomed like a spectre in her imagination, a mute target for her grief, loss and bitter fury. She had no one else to blame. When the Çanakkale campaign ended, Turgut had simply not returned. He did not write. There had been no knock at the door from a uniformed messenger delivering condolences from the Ottoman army, or a list or newspaper with his name printed in an inventory of dead and injured. Just silence. For a while, Ayshe had maintained her faith that he would come back, experiencing waves of blind optimism, then frustration and, finally, desperation. Until the day she acknowledged to herself that he was gone. On that day, she turned her impotent rage on those men who had travelled halfway across the world to invade her home. The Australians – their accursed Anzacs – had carried the weight of her heartbreak. It had been an effective diversion for her. Until this man came lumbering through her door and challenged all the things Ayshe thought she knew, disarming her with his quiet resolve and lack of guile. Any lingering animosity she still harboured disappeared when she saw the close bond forming between her son and the Australian.

As liberated as she is, the world of men is opaque to Ayshe, but watching Orhan with Connor she can see that it is governed by rules that transcend language, age and geography. It has been many years since Orhan has had a strong man in his life whom he also admires. Her son adores his grandfather, but as Ibrahim’s mind disintegrates, Orhan coddles him as he would a baby brother. Even when Turgut was still with them, he was so distracted by his music and social life outside the family home that Orhan never interacted with his own father in this way. They had fun together, went on adventures, but Orhan was still young.

Watching her son with Connor, she is struck by a horrible realisation. Her son detests his uncle, and even if Orhan lives beneath the same roof as Omer, he will never feel the same warmth towards him. If she is brutally honest, she doesn’t want Omer choking her son’s spirit with his dour counsel. This thought brings her back to the present, and she flinches at the thought of what she has promised to do today. She had resolved herself to her fate yesterday. But when she woke this morning and caught sight of her black widow’s dress hanging in the wardrobe like a carrion bird, she still couldn’t bring herself to put it on.

Natalia works by Ayshe’s side, adding to the growing stack of
dolma
. She interrupts Ayshe’s reverie, murmuring to her under her breath in French.

‘He is handsome, don’t you think?’

‘I do not think about other men. I am married.’ Ayshe’s cheeks flush; she is embarrassed that the Russian woman has caught her gazing at Connor.

‘No, of course . . . It has been four years for you, no? There must be cobwebs up there.’

Ayshe raises a hand and laughs, feigning indignity.

‘Natalia . . . please!’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t miss it . . .’

‘I miss my husband. That is different.’

‘Would your husband want you to wither and weep and marry into misery? Is that who he was?’

The women watch Connor as he gently directs Orhan and heaves the pieces of timber into place, his strong chest straining against his shirt.

‘His equipment is all there, Ayshe Hanim. In need of practice, but all there . . .’

‘Enough, Natalia,’ Ayshe retorts. ‘Too much. Go and eat your breakfast.’

‘He is cut, too.’

Ayshe claps her hands over her ears in mock horror. Glancing into the courtyard, she sees that Connor and Orhan have finished their work. They turn to walk back into the hotel, stopping at the trough to wash the sawdust from their hands.

‘Shush, you disgraceful woman. They’re coming.’ Ayshe hurries Natalia from the kitchen; the Russian woman sashays out, hips wiggling.

Orhan bursts through the door, blurting out in Turkish, ‘Mother, Connor Bey is coming with us to the cistern. He wants to see it!’

Ayshe looks into Orhan’s upturned face, alight with anticipation. Shaking her head, she addresses him in Turkish. ‘No. It is just you and me today. Special treat.’ Ayshe turns to Connor and reverts to English. ‘I am sorry, Mr Connor. This is not possible.’

Connor nods his head in understanding.

‘It would not be proper,’ she adds.

‘Of course. I am going to the Red Cross this morning anyway.’

Ayshe feels a small hand in hers, senses Orhan’s disappointment. His excited expression has imploded into one of utter dejection.

‘Little one, it is not possible.’ But as she says it, Ayshe’s will breaks.

‘Well . . . Mr Connor, where we are going is near the Red Cross. Perhaps if you were to follow – perhaps twenty paces behind. Then there would be no shame.’

The boy whoops with delight. ‘Come, come, Connor Bey. Come get your hat. We go. We go now.’ Orhan leads Connor from the kitchen by the hand, the big man following awkwardly but willingly in the child’s wake.

Ayshe can’t see any real harm in allowing him this one, small indulgence. The boy’s world is going to be shattered soon enough.

A war veteran, still clad in the well-worn but patched and clean remnants of his Ottoman uniform, sits at a spinning whetstone, pumping the treadle to keep the glistening disc whirling. He lays the edge of a wooden-handled knife against the stone, sending sparks flying. Connor pauses to marvel at his adroit handling of the razor-sharp blade and notices the recent nicks on the man’s fingers. Finished, the veteran brings the knife up to his ear, flicks the blade with his thumbnail and listens to it like a tuning fork. Perfect. He calls out the name of the knife’s owner and looks up, and Connor sees a burn scar melting down the man’s face and two milky, sightless eyes.

Along the wall of the busy alley, a gaggle of shopkeepers sit in a row on low, rush-bottomed stools beneath the eaves of their stores, inhaling deeply on their cigarettes and gossiping. As Ayshe moves past them she joins in the banter; although Connor has no idea what she says, the tone of her voice and the gales of laughter that follow her leave little doubt that she is popular in her neighbourhood. One of the men stands and, doffing his cap, bows theatrically. Ayshe curtsies and laughs easily, continuing on her way with Orhan in her wake.

The lane is steeper here, and a narrow flight of wide steps makes negotiating the slippery cobbles less perilous. Connor walks a short distance behind the woman and her son, an unwitting voyeur. He can’t tear his eyes away from her; he finds it impossible not to be entranced by Ayshe’s elegant curves and the fluid and graceful way she moves. Her head is held high on a ballerina’s long neck, and she places her feet daintily as she walks. Mounting a step, she lifts her skirt slightly, offering Connor a glimpse of her lithe lower leg and delicate ankle. He feels the unfamiliar thickness in his throat that accompanies desire. Connor’s encounter with Natalia has sparked something within him that has lain undisturbed for what seems like an eternity.

Ayshe and Orhan turn into a dead-end lane and approach an enormous open doorway edged with an ancient mossy lintel and fluted columns. They slip inside and Connor follows. Immediately he is struck by a familiar and welcome sound. Water. Dripping, gushing, trickling, flowing water. And the smell: a dark, green scent that permeates the cool air. As his eyes adjust, he sees shafts of light penetrating the gloom from cracks and holes in the cistern’s roof. The beams of sunlight shine on an immense forest of massive columns as fat and tall as the oldest river gums back home. They glitter on a body of water that stretches back into the darkest depths of the cistern.

He can’t help but utter an exclamation of surprise.

Ayshe explains. ‘This is Orhan’s favourite place. It is Roman. And still the best water in the city.’

The volume of water here is unfathomable. Connor picks up a shard of terracotta from the jumble of broken chunks of marble and shattered ceramic that crunch underfoot, and tosses it as far as he can into the vast pool. He can tell by the hollow plonk it makes as it strikes the surface of the water that the reservoir is very, very deep. He kneels by the edge and dips his hand into the pool, then lifts it to his lips. Like the water at the Blue Mosque it is sweet and cool.

‘It doesn’t come from beneath the ground,’ he observes.

Bending, Ayshe uses a small pannikin to fill the large urn she has brought with her from the hotel.

‘No it comes from the mountains along the aqueduct of Valens that runs through Constantinople. It always runs, even in the middle of the hottest summer.’

Connor turns to Orhan. ‘Do you know how to find water?’

Orhan looks puzzled at what seems to be a patently obvious question.

‘When it rains, it comes from the sky.’

‘Where I’m from it’s like the desert, and sometimes it doesn’t rain for years. We have to find water that’s fallen through cracks in the earth. There are rivers and lakes under there. You have to find them’

‘How do you find it under the ground?’ Orhan looks sceptical.

The Australian pauses. His strange gift seems so normal to him that he rarely gives it a moment’s thought. At home, his neighbours accept his ability to divine water without question. He can’t think of the last time he was asked to explain it.

‘That’s the trick. You have to feel it. It is like the earth talks to me.’

Orhan’s brow creases.

‘First I look for clues above the ground – like old river beds or big rocks. If I see trees growing, then I know there must be water somewhere down there. Then I
really
start looking, and I use my hands. And it is like they can see underground.’ Connor struggles to think of a way to describe it to the boy. ‘When you are trying to find something in the dark, you use your hands, don’t you?’

Orhan nods, transfixed by Connor’s every word.

‘It’s just like that. The things buried deep beneath the earth are sending me messages, and I can hear those messages with my hands. When I find the spot I dig down to the water.’

‘And you find water every time?’

Connor laughs at the thought of the number of failed attempts he’s made over the years.

‘No. I’ve dug a lot of wells that just end up being holes in the ground.’ He steps behind the boy and rests his hands on his shoulders. ‘Here. I will show you. Shut your eyes.’

Orhan obediently lowers his eyelids. Connor gently raises the boy’s arms so they are extended in front of him. ‘Now hold out your fingers and move slowly in a circle. That’s it. Slowly.’

Watching from alongside, Ayshe is moved by the unexpected tenderness with which Connor rests Orhan’s hands in his own rough-hewn palms. He turns the boy’s hands over and runs his fingers lightly down the veins that pulse blue at his wrist.

‘Can you feel it here? Tingling?’ he asks.

Sneaking one eye open to peek up at Connor, Orhan looks disappointed.

‘I cannot feel it. Just your hand.’

‘Come on. Close your eyes. No – don’t open them! Can you feel it now?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘No, Connor Bey. I feel nothing.’

Connor bends and scoops some water into his hands, splashing it playfully into Orhan’s face.

‘Can you feel it now?’

Orhan shrieks with delight and splashes Connor back. They go tit for tat until water drips from their hair and soaks their shirts. Eyes glinting, a mischievous idea strikes them simultaneously. Together they turn towards a grim-faced Ayshe.

There’s no doubting their intentions. Ayshe stands firm and places her hands on her hips. ‘No! Absolutely not. That would not be proper.’

Connor gathers himself, conscious of propriety and feeling like a clumsy oaf. ‘I am very sorry.’

Out of nowhere a wicked smile flashes across Ayshe’s lips and she flings the pannikin of water into Connor’s face. She bolts back out of the cistern, shrieking with laughter, her son in hot pursuit.

Blinking, Connor wipes the water from his eyes and watches them leave, his hair dripping and his heart pounding.

‘I wish I could be of some help, but we only forwarded relief packages to the prison camps – with bars of soap, blankets and such. We didn’t have any direct contact with the soldiers. It wasn’t our war, you see.’