Then he saw the canvases. One was on an easel, others were stacked in a corner of the room. He walked up to the easel. It was an oil rendering of the French doors, open to the sea, but defined by light and color rather than any realistic detail. It evoked exactly the same feeling he had had when entering the room, of falling into a brilliant sea of blue.
“Remarkable,” he said. “You have enormous talent.” He felt humbled by it, and eager to support it in whatever way he could. He let his eyes follow the delicate curve of her head. He thought of her bravery and humor. She was unusual, eclectic, still wounded, but recovering. A strong woman. Remembering their intimacy by the fire, he wondered what it would be like if they were married. He imagined her in the winter garden, painting, then thought of his orchids, endangered by drafts and continual traffic.
“Elif,” he began awkwardly. “Have you thought any more about your future?”
“Well, I love teaching,” she responded. “I’m terrified, of course. But the students are talented and so kind. It’s wonderful that Hamdi Bey has art classes for women at his academy. You know, it’s so rare, even in Paris. I wouldn’t have been able to get anywhere without the support of people like Mary Cassatt. I’ll repay her by teaching these girls everything she taught me.”
“They’re lucky to have you as their teacher.”
She flushed and lowered her head at the praise.
Kamil’s heart caught at the sight of her slight smile.
“Have you thought about getting married again?” He could see the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
Kamil was suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment. Who was he to ask Elif such a personal question, especially if he was not prepared to follow through himself?
She went to the window and looked out at the sea. “I’m not ready yet,” she said softly. “You know some of the reasons. There are others.”
“You don’t need to tell me. I understand.”
“Do you?” She looked up at him. The blue of her eyes shot through him. “It wasn’t just my husband’s death and then,” she paused and he could see her struggling with herself, “my son’s death. There were other things, things I thought I had to do but that, in the end, changed nothing. Except me. They changed me.” She laid her fingers on his arm, her eyes willing him to understand. “I can’t.” Her voice broke and she looked away. “I just can’t.”
Elif walked to the easel and regarded the scene from the window in the painting.
Kamil followed.
“Elif,” he said softly, “I don’t know what happened, but whatever it was, it created the woman standing before me for whom I have all the love and respect in the world.”
She nodded. Tears spilled over her cheeks.
“May I visit again?” Kamil asked, wondering whether he was taking unfair advantage of her distress.
“I’ll send a message through Feride,” she answered without looking at him.
Trying not to let his disappointment show, Kamil turned toward the door. “I’ll go now. Be well.”
As he descended the stairs, he heard rapid footsteps behind him and looked back. It was Elif.
She bent her head to his and whispered, “My son’s name was Yunus.” Then she ran back up the stairs. He heard the door slam.
Yunus, dolphin.
She had given him the gift of her son’s name.
Later that evening, Kamil sat in his bed, idly turning the pages of the Gardener’s Chronicle and Agricultural Gazette. He had propped Elif’s watercolor on the dresser. In the half-light, Orchis pinetorum came to life, its white-robed blooms whirling like dervishes across the page. In the background, a basketry of shadows, stems, bracts, and nodes. He stood and placed the book of poems by John Donne beside it, as if each might draw comfort from the other.
42
“How are you, brother?” Saba asked, pushing Amida’s hair back from his forehead.
He turned his eyes to her. “As well as can be expected,” he answered bleakly.
“Do you want to sit up?”
Amida nodded and Saba gestured to the servant waiting by the door to come and help her. Together, they tugged and lifted him into a sitting position. His legs were still limp, but he was getting stronger.
The night of the fire, Constantine, with enormous skill and concentration, had extracted the bullet from Amida’s back and closed the wound. He came by every day to check on his patient. Most evenings he and Saba sat together and talked. She found herself looking forward to his visits and relying on his advice.
“So, how does it feel to be in charge?” Amida asked her. She could hear a faint echo of bitterness that she knew Amida tried to hide.
“I’m not in charge of anything yet. The ceremony isn’t for another two weeks. There’s a lot to do.” After the ceremony that would make her priestess, they were planning an enormous feast for the Melisite community and several other important guests.
“Sorry I can’t help.” Amida grimaced, gesturing at his legs.
The ceremony should also be the initiation of the caretaker. She regarded her brother carefully. Should she include him or wait until he was better? Did they even need a caretaker anymore, now that the Proof of God had been found?
“You know,” he said, “you don’t need to walk to be caretaker. It wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Malik could walk, but he never went anywhere.” Amida laughed, a desperate sound.
“You’re right. It wouldn’t matter.”
Amida looked relieved.
“There’s no rush, though,” Saba added, “now that the Proof is safe, there’s no need for a caretaker at the Kariye. It’s not there anymore.”
Amida was clearly unhappy. “How about caretaker of the Imperial Museum?”
Saba laughed to keep him company. “I think that job’s taken.”
“I can go through the ceremony,” Amida insisted. “I can sit in the chair.” He pointed to a wheelchair beside the bed. It was made of wicker and polished wood with a small chamberpot built into the seat.
Saba pictured Amida being wheeled in beside her on her day of triumph. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
“Later, Amida. There’s plenty of time. Get well first.”
Amida closed his eyes and turned his head away. Tears gathered beneath his lashes. “Leave me alone now,” he muttered.
Saba turned and walked to the door. As she passed the servant, she told him, “Have him brought to the hamam this afternoon and make sure you find that special masseur Monsieur Courtidis recommended.”
“Yes, madam,” he answered with lowered head.
Since the day Saba had summoned the shocked servants to clean her room after Gudit’s attack, they had treated her with great deference. Perhaps, she thought with a tight smile, they were afraid of her.
Gudit hadn’t reappeared, nor did Saba inquire after her, but she learned with surprise and some satisfaction that the midwife had sought out Constantine Courtidis to tend to her wounds. Gudit would have to carry out the ceremony of accession. There was no one else. Then she would no longer be needed.
Saba opened the box and took out her scepter, which Kamil had returned to her. It would have been easier to establish her leadership, she thought angrily, if Kamil had done the right thing and given her the Proof of God. It belonged to the Melisites.
43
The guard at the Imperial Museum put down his rifle and unlocked the front door. He looked up at the Arabic inscription over the lintel. He couldn’t read it, but assumed it was a verse from the Quran, so he said a silent prayer before stepping across the threshold. Inside, the other guard was asleep in his chair. He nudged him and went into the kitchen to prepare the morning’s tea. It took him several minutes to light the brazier, set the water to boil in the bottom of the double-boiler teapot, and pour a cup of black tea leaves into the top. He stared out of the window, looking at nothing particular, but letting the golds and russets of autumn fill his eyes. When the water was hot, he poured enough over the tea leaves to cover them, put the teapot back on the boiler, and set it on the coals to brew for another twenty minutes. He glanced at the lay of the light to judge the time, then went back into the main room. He wanted to ask the other guard’s advice about finding an apprenticeship for his son. It was time he learned a trade.