“Faith means believing anyway,” Malik explained.
“That’s the problem,” Omar replied. “But I still like to get the story straight.”
Kamil thought it was as perceptive a description of his own feelings as he had heard, but said nothing.
Malik craned his neck at the mosaics. “Regardless of the theology, these mosaics deserve to be displayed for their beauty alone. Look how the colors are striking even after all this time. The craftsmen used gold and ground lapis. But they used simple materials too. Look over here. They used tiny pieces of pottery to make these amphorae. The theme of Mary as Container is everywhere, even in the structure of the building. Let me show you.”
He led Kamil and Omar to the end of the hall and a small door that stood open. Inside, Kamil could make out the base of a steeply winding stair that led to the top of the minaret, where the imam called the faithful to prayer five times a day.
“The walls are very thick here in order to hold the weight of the bell tower.” Malik pointed upward. “There are also ceramic jars built into the corners with their openings exposed so that moisture doesn’t build up inside the walls. They’re called weepholes. The workers keep plastering them over, so they’re hard to spot.”
“Clever engineering,” Kamil responded, thinking that faith required a great deal of creativity to find signs in even the most mundane objects.
As if reading his mind, Malik said, “You’re a skeptic, Kamil, I know. And maybe the architects of this church had nothing more in their heads than keeping the walls dry. But the actors don’t write the play.”
“I like to think we write our own scripts.”
“It’s in our nature to try,” Malik responded good-naturedly.
“It’s my observation,” Omar interjected, “that someone else is always trying to write it for you. Your wife, your mother-in-law, the government.”
Malik laughed. “A man whose nature is untamed by his heart. You should be grateful you have a wife who puts up with you.”
“Never marry a woman who was spoiled by her father,” Omar said to Kamil. “A peddler’s daughter loves beads.”
“Do you have children?” Kamil asked.
“By the will of Allah, it hasn’t happened.” Omar looked uncomfortable.
Kamil felt sorry for the burly police chief. Having no children, especially sons, was considered a tragedy by many. It was said that a man without a son was a man whose hearth had gone out, and it occasioned pity and sometimes scorn, especially for the man’s wife, who was usually held responsible. Omar didn’t seem the sort to appreciate people’s pity.
To change the subject, Kamil asked Malik, “Where do you teach your pupils?”
“In the room behind the mosque. When I have female pupils, my housekeeper comes and knits. I’m hoping she’s learning something just by being in the same room. I took Saba on as a pupil because she has a passion for the old languages and learns them as readily as birds take to the air. Allah has placed in her a yeast that I’m privileged to help rise.”
“Old languages?” Kamil asked. He had assumed Malik taught only the Quran.
“Greek, Aramaic, the sacred languages.”
Omar scoffed. “Half the neighborhood speaks Greek.”
“Modern Greek is infected with the street. It sheds history like a dog flinging rain off its pelt.”
“Those Greek dogs,” Omar joked. Malik laughed.
Kamil watched them, envying their easy camaraderie. He had few close friends. His American friend Bernie had returned home the previous year, leaving a gap that Kamil found he was no longer able to fill as easily with work and books and orchids. He wandered into the central prayer room, its walls decorated with marble panels instead of mosaics. He let his eyes try to puzzle out the patterns in the marble. They looked like the desert, a sea, snowy mountains. Art with no human intercession, remote and beautiful.
Malik followed him, seeming to sense his mood. Kamil was glad of his company. “Those revetments were once Greek columns. To get these continuous patterns, the Byzantines cut the columns into thin slices that unfolded like fans.” Malik illustrated with the palms of his hands.
Kamil noticed Malik wore a gold signet ring on his right forefinger. It had a curious design engraved on it, a disk and crescent. The silver pin that clasped his cloak was also unusual, a geometric weave of lines. He wondered about the history of Malik’s family. Had there been Abyssinians in Istanbul during Byzantine times? Perhaps they had been desired as slaves even then.
Malik stopped in the middle of the room and swept his hand toward the walls. “The Greeks built their empire on top of what came before them, Constantinople was built on Greek ruins, and Istanbul is built on top of Byzantium. Nothing is wasted. There’s a lesson there,” he smiled mildly at Kamil, “but I’m not wise enough to know what it is.”
As they walked back to the corridor, Malik leaned closer and said in a low, urgent voice, “Tomorrow morning. Please do come to my house. I must speak with you.”
Puzzled, Kamil assured him that he would.
“Thank you, my friend.” Malik squeezed Kamil’s arm, then turned and walked away quickly.
Omar was in conversation with a tall, thin man by the mosque entrance. As Kamil drew closer, he recognized the policeman Ali. The two spoke in low voices and then Ali left.
“Our snitch in Charshamba has reported that there’s going to be a big smuggling operation late tonight,” Omar told Kamil. “Do you want to join us in the raid?”
“Of course.” So far, he had learned nothing about the thefts here, only about Byzantine architecture. He wondered what it was that Malik had to tell him.
“Good,” Omar said amiably. “Let’s go fishing and see what lands in our net.”
They went looking for Malik and found him sitting on a sarcophagus in a long, narrow room with a domed ceiling. More sarcophagi rested in niches along the wall. One side of the room was piled with sacks and chests. In the corner, someone had arranged a circle of cushions around a low tray.
“The reliquary that was stolen was silver and somewhat damaged. It’s very old,” Malik explained, getting to his feet. “The rug once belonged to Sultan Ahmet I, so I think it must have been valuable.” His face looked drawn and Kamil had the impression that his friend had aged in the few moments since their whispered conversation.
“What was in the reliquary?”
Kamil noted a slight hesitation before Malik answered.
“It was empty.”
“Where was it?”
“In here.” Malik went to the back corner and opened a dusty chest.
“How often was this chest opened?”
“Never, that I know of.”
Kamil pointed to numerous finger marks in the dust around the latch and lid. “So these must be the thief’s. Was the lid open or closed when you arrived?”
“Open. That’s how I knew the reliquary was missing.”
“How did you know what was in here if the chest was never opened?”
Malik looked startled. After a moment, he said, “I saw it open once and I remember seeing the reliquary.”
This seemed unlikely to Kamil. The chest was filled with a jumble of objects. Why would Malik notice an unremarkable reliquary with enough accuracy to be able to tell it was missing? It was also clear to Kamil that Malik was not accustomed to lying and it made him enormously uncomfortable. Malik wanted the reliquary found, yet he also wished it to appear unimportant. Perhaps, thought Kamil, that was why he had asked Omar to send for him, knowing he would investigate the matter out of friendship, despite the trivial value of the stolen object. Perhaps the reliquary had personal meaning for Malik and he could think of no other way to convince the authorities to look for it. Kamil planned to have his officers make the rounds to the other police stations that had reported thefts, but for the moment the reliquary was his only lead. He systematically checked the other chests and bundles in the room. The dust on all of them had recently been disturbed.