It was a watercolor. He recognized the image right away. “Orchis pinetorum,” he exclaimed. The pure white blooms flashed across the page like an arc of tiny startled birds. He felt her exhilaration there, her vulnerability. There was also a tensile strength in the arc that surprised him.
Half an hour later, Ismail Hodja and Hamdi Bey arrived in the same carriage. They greeted Kamil and their hosts effusively. They seemed in excellent spirits and the conversation at lunch was lively.
“It’s too bad Elif Hanoum isn’t here,” Hamdi Bey said as the servants took away the soup bowls. “But I take full blame. She’s needed at the academy.”
Kamil listened, but ate little. His headaches had returned. He planned to ask Courtidis for more Balat Balm. He hadn’t liked the hallucinations and emotional untethering-he assumed they were side effects-but it had cured his headache, at least until Remzi hit him on the head and Owen put a bullet through his shoulder.
“The Proof of God should remain in the museum,” Hamdi Bey was saying, “where it can be copied and studied. Above all, where it can be guarded. I’ve taken a look at that flimsy prayer hall in Sunken Village. An artifact of this historical value needs to be preserved and protected. Saba Hanoum is welcome to come to the museum to look at it whenever she likes.”
Feride nodded and looked interested. Kamil had told her and Huseyin only that the Proof of God was an important sacred object and that people had tried to steal it. He wondered what they made of the conversation.
Ismail Hodja told Huseyin that Saba was keeping up the tradition of Malik’s ecumenical dawah.
“Ecumenical dawah?” Huseyin asked.
“Theological calls to discussion across religious lines,” Ismail Hodja explained, setting aside his fork. A servant whisked his plate away and replaced it with a clean one for the next course.
“I’ve taken the liberty of convening a discussion group made up of my Jewish, Muslim, and Christian colleagues, all scholars of the highest caliber. I reached out to as many denominations and sects as I could. We had our first meeting last night,” he added. Kamil could hear the excitement in the sheikh’s voice.
Huseyin was uncharacteristically silent and Kamil found himself feeling sorry for his brother-in-law, who, on this subject, was clearly out of his depth. Kamil wondered what Feride thought about her half sister being the leader of a religious sect. She had wanted to meet Saba, but Kamil wasn’t ready to let her into their lives just yet. His feelings about Saba were too confused, wrapped up in some way with that profoundly disturbing dream and his father’s betrayal.
Huseyin set to cutting up his meat with great concentration.
Hamdi Bey asked, “Will Saba Hanoum attend these meetings?”
Ismail Hodja nodded. “I asked her to come to the meeting last night. There was some resistance to having a woman in the group. But after I explained that Saba had authored some of the calls and was leader of her own sect, the others agreed that she should join us. They call her Sheikha Saba. Do you know what she told them? She said all the Prophets point in the same direction, and if we look to where they point and go there, we all end up at the same spot. Remarkable insight for someone so young.”
“What is a sheikha?” Feride asked.
“A Muslim woman who is a spiritual leader,” Ismail Hodja explained.
“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” she exclaimed.
“One of the most famous is Rabi’a al-‘Adawiyya, who lived about two hundred years after the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon his name, in the city of Basra. She was a servant of poor origin, but one night her master woke to see the light of saintliness shining about her head and illuminating the entire house. He released her and she went to live in the desert. She debated highly esteemed Sufi leaders, but outshone them all with her intellectual forthrightness and spiritual powers. It is said that one such leader, Hasan al-Basri, became envious and approached her as she was sitting on the bank of a stream with some of her followers. He threw his carpet on the water, sat on it, and called to Rabi’a to come and converse with him. Do you know what she did?”
Feride was rapt with attention. “No, what?”
“She stuck a knife in the inflated sheepskins he was using to hold the carpet up,” Huseyin suggested, eliciting a scowl from Feride.
Ismail Hodja laughed. “Excellent guess, but no. She threw her carpet up in the air, sat on it, and said, ‘Well, Hasan, come up here where people will see us better.’”
Feride laughed in delight.
“Hasan couldn’t do it, of course. And Rabi’a told him, ‘What you did, a fish can do, and what I did, a bird can do. The real work to be done lies beyond both of these.’”
“A very wise woman,” Hamdi Bey applauded.
Huseyin tore off a hunk of bread. “Thanks be to Allah, women can’t be politicians.”
They laughed.
“The Quran doesn’t forbid it, you know,” Ismail Hodja commented, his fork pausing in midair. “In verse twenty-three of the Sura of the Ants, the Queen of Sheba is described as a mighty ruler who, although she consulted with men, made all the final decisions. It is her ignorance of the true faith that is faulted, not her inability to govern.”
Feride said tentatively, “I remember something about the Prophet’s wife Aysha riding into battle on a camel.”
“And his first wife was a rich merchant, wasn’t she?” Huseyin asked. “Smart man.” He nodded approval.
Kamil leaned over to Ismail Hodja and asked softly, “Have you told this ecumenical group about the Melisites or the Proof of God?”
“Unfortunately, the world isn’t ready to become one nation,” Ismail Hodja responded. “We need to plow the ground first before we plant the seed. The Proof is safe in the museum. I go there every day to copy and study it. It’ll be my life’s work. I can’t think of anything more important. Hamdi Bey has kindly put a private room at my disposal where I can work on it undisturbed. It has to be handled with the utmost care, as you can imagine. At the moment, I’m preparing a report for the Azhar Archive. A most auspicious day, Kamil. I praise Allah that I should live to see it.”
41
The liveried guards saluted Kamil as he passed through the main gate into the courtyard of the Camondo Apartments. The building was shaped like a U, with one side of the courtyard open to the sea and sky. Built into the side of a steep hill, it seemed to float above the sparkling water. On three sides rose walls studded with French windows and balconies.
Elif was waiting for him in the courtyard, outlined against the immense cobalt sky. She wore a brown tunic over loose trousers, a coral-colored vest, and a long, matching brown jacket. Her head was bare, her blond hair still short as a boy’s. Her clothes were neither those of a man, nor those of a woman; perhaps different enough to avoid condemnation, he decided. He wondered if she had designed them herself.
“Kamil,” she breathed. “I was so happy to get your message. Thank you for coming.” She looked like a figure from classical antiquity, yet more present than any woman he had ever met.
“Are you well?” he asked, although he could see the answer. Her eyes were still troubled, but her face had lost its hollows and her cheeks radiated health.
“Come. I’ll show you.” She took Kamil’s good arm lightly. They entered a grand entry hall and she led him up the marble stairway. Two well-dressed women stopped for a moment to greet her.
“We’re off to the Café Lebon,” the younger woman said. With a curious look at Kamil, she added, “Join us later, if you like.” The women continued down the stairs, their hats bobbing.
On the next floor, Elif pushed open a double door and stepped inside. Kamil followed. They entered a bright, high-ceilinged room, which ended in a set of large windows and French doors leading to a balcony. The walls were so alive with light, Kamil was momentarily blinded.