“I’m impressed by how much you know about what goes on in this area,” he told Omar.
“The coffeehouse,” Omar said with a grin. “Everybody knows everybody. All you need is an ear and a strong stomach. But enough socializing. If we don’t get this case solved by lunchtime, I’ll starve.”
Kamil turned to Malik. “You asked to see me. Is it about the theft?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you with it,” Malik answered, pressing Kamil’s hand between his own. It was an unremarkable statement, but Kamil saw the urgency in his friend’s eyes.
“On the contrary,” Kamil responded, “an opportunity to meet up with an old friend is precious. And I hear there was a witness. There’ve been thefts from the Patriarchate, the Fatih Mosque, and other places in the area. One thief could lead us to others, especially the dealers they sell to.”
Malik looked relieved. “I’ll do whatever I can to assist. What else can I tell you?”
“You’ve heard the description of the thief?”
“Omar told me,” Malik replied. “Long hair. Could it have been a woman?”
Kamil nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. Do you have the key to the storeroom?”
“It’s not locked. The keys to those old doors are long gone. The mosque was restored about ten years ago and we asked the Ministry of Pious Foundations to replace the doors, but they didn’t see fit to do so. Only the outer door can be locked.”
“How many keys are there?” Kamil remembered that the baker’s apprentice had seen the thief bend over the door as if locking it.
“Just one. Both the imam and I use it, so we keep it in a room behind the mosque to which we both have a key.”
Two men were arguing in the square. A group of men surrounded them and began to take sides. There was shouting and a scuffle.
Malik frowned in their direction. “It’s probably about the icon, the one that was stolen from the Patriarchate. You heard about it?”
“Of course,” Omar replied, his eyes on the quarreling men.
“The Christians are blaming the Muslims for stealing it. It’s ridiculous, of course. Everyone knows a theft is just a theft.”
As the tension in the square rose, Kamil waited for Omar’s cue to act. It was his district. Just then, the imam appeared and spoke to a few of the men. They turned their backs angrily and left, and the argument seemed to subside.
“Let’s see the key,” Omar suggested.
Malik led Kamil and Omar around to the back of the mosque, where a small, whitewashed structure had been built into the corner of a collapsed but still massive brick wall.
“This used to be a church in Byzantine times,” Malik explained. “The name, Saint Savior in Chora, referred to the fact that in those days it was in the country, outside the original city walls.” He laid his hand on the crumbling bricks. “This is all that’s left of the monastery. The monks spent their time copying old texts. They copied Greek manuscripts that have been lost in the original, and they translated Arab writings from earlier centuries. If it weren’t for the monks, we wouldn’t have Ibn al-Thahabi’s medical treatise The Book of Water or al-Ma’mun’s Face of the Earth. When you come again, I will show you some pages. I have a modest collection in my home.” He pointed beyond the rubble to a nearby two-story house that stood alone in a small yard. “You’re welcome any time.” He looked directly at Kamil. “Why don’t you join me for breakfast one day soon? Perhaps tomorrow? As long as the weather allows, I put a table under the plane tree behind my house. It’s very pleasant and the housekeeper supplies me with excellent cheese from her village.”
Beneath the pleasantries, Kamil heard the entreaty in Malik’s voice. For some reason, he thought, Malik wished to speak with him alone. “Thank you, Malik. I look forward to it.”
After a moment, Malik added, “You’re welcome to come too, Omar, but you know that.”
“Thanks, but I see enough of you already.” Omar was prowling the perimeter of the building, testing the windows. “A child could open these windows,” he pointed out, teasing one open with a small knife.
Malik unlocked the door and led the way into a bright, pleasant room with blue-washed walls. “Quran classes are held here now, so it’s still a place of learning.”
The room was furnished with a threadbare carpet. A cushioned divan stretched along two sides, and more cushions, their colorful geometric designs stitched in wool, were stacked on the floor. Kamil saw several low writing desks, a shelf of books and papers, and a cabinet that presumably held writing supplies.
Malik opened the cabinet and took a heavy iron key from the top shelf. “It’s possible that someone saw where we keep the key,” he told Kamil. “As you can see, it’s quite large.” He slipped it into the pocket of his robe.
He let them into the mosque and lit a lamp. Kamil was surprised by the brilliant mosaics lining the domes and arches above him. He saw peacocks, trees, fruited branches. Jesus taking a woman’s wrist. A woman kissing his hem. A diminutive Mary, her head caressed by an angel, approaching a woman on a throne, her hands outstretched. The dazzling images and colors were overwhelming. Kamil had never seen anything better, even in the Aya Sofya Mosque, where fragments of gilded mosaics were still visible in the upper galleries.
Malik followed his startled gaze.
“Thirty years ago, this was all painted over. The plaster was cracked and filthy. Then there was a fire and Sultan Abdulaziz, may he be rewarded in heaven, allowed the architect Kuppas to restore the interior. During the restorations, these mosaics were revealed. Aren’t they magnificent? These are scenes from the life of Mary. The Byzantines believed her to be the mother of God, the Container of the Uncontainable, the vehicle by which Jesus came to the earth. Chora also means the dwelling place of the Uncontainable.”
Kamil was puzzled. “I admit they’re beautiful, but surely depictions of the human form are prohibited, especially in a mosque. Why didn’t they plaster over them again?”
“You’re right, but this wouldn’t be the first time that rule was broken. Persian and Ottoman artists have always painted scenes from the lives of important persons, pictures of hunts, battles, processions, picnics, circumcision parties, all kinds of everyday activities. Like most civilizations, the Byzantines used art to honor their leaders, especially those who had a lot of money.” He pointed to a faint figure painted on plaster against the outer wall. “That’s Theodore Metochites, the patron who paid for these mosaics.”
Kamil could barely make out the image of a man wearing a striped turban, who was presenting a miniature of the church to Christ.
“Still, it’s forbidden by the Quran,” Omar pointed out.
Malik looked at Omar with an expression Kamil put somewhere between respect and disbelief.
“There are two kinds of religion in the world, my friend,” Malik explained patiently. “One is blind faith that requires only obedience and discourages thought. It’s to the leader’s advantage that you see only his heels, so he demonizes all other views. That kind of faith is comforting, but it can lead you down treacherous paths. Another kind of faith encourages the faithful to think about what they’re doing and why. These are people who praise Allah in the highest way they can imagine, through scholarship or art, or simply by living consciously as good Muslims. The rules don’t matter as much as the principle.” Malik put his arm around Omar’s shoulders. “I’m worried about you suddenly becoming devout, my friend.”
“Well, it’s true I don’t know much about it,” Omar admitted reluctantly, “but it seems to me that Islam is Islam and there are certain rules. I’m a policeman because I like to know what’s what.”
“In the Quran it says that all the prophets back to Abraham were given the same message. Jews and Christians share the same prophecy as Muslims.”
“Of course, but Islam is different. Our Prophet is the last one.” Omar shrugged, then admitted to Kamil, “I don’t believe any of it, really, without proof.”