The Architect's Apprentice Part 23

The afternoon of the big day, Jahan washed, brushed and oiled Chota tusk to tail. Then he put the mantle and the anklets on him.

'So handsome,' Jahan cooed. 'If I were a lady elephant I'd fall for you.'

For a split second Chota's eyes, too small for his head, crinkled with mirth. In this state they pa.s.sed through the gates into the inner courtyards.

The evening started with a gift-giving ceremony. The Bailo was given shawls, shoes, bejewelled belts, nightingales in gilded cages and a fat pouch, which contained ten thousand akces. A murmur of appreciation rose as everyone commended Sultan Selim's generosity, even though he was yet to appear. The amba.s.sador was ushered to the dining place. Inside a high-ceilinged chamber, four tables had been prepared for the most notable guests. Marcantonio and the Grand Vizier and Master Sinan would be at the same table.

The Sultan would be eating alone, as was the palace custom. Jahan thought about the Frankish kings and queens who always dined amid their retinue. He wondered which was better, their way or the Ottomans'? Who would want to watch the monarch chewing on a chicken leg or chomping and belching like a mere mortal? Not seeing the Sultan at table only added to his respectability. Yet, at the same time, it made him more unreachable and, eventually, harder to understand. It was easier to love someone you shared bread with.

Meanwhile the rest of the guests, including Jahan, were led into smaller rooms. About fifty boys, of similar height and size, dressed in green shalwar, began to serve. Deft and fast, they brought large, round trays and set them on wooden legs. Upon these they placed spoons and olives, pickles and spices in bowls so small no one would dare dip in a finger for fear of breaking them. Next they carried basins and silver pitchers for everyone to wash their hands. Finally they distributed towels and peskirs for the guests to put on their laps and use to wipe their fingers.

Knowing how important manners were, Jahan glanced left and right, observing what the others did. The worst sin you could commit at a banquet was gluttony. Even if it were your favourite dish, you had to eat slowly, showing no sign of greed. Jahan was careful to use the three fingers of his right hand, without dripping oil. Mercifully there were others like him checking out what everyone else was doing. A few times their stares crossed and they nodded politely.

They were served wheat soup with a hunk of dark bread, which was so filling Jahan could have stopped eating there and then. But as soon as the crocks were taken away they were brought vine leaves stuffed with meat, rice with pine nuts, chicken kebab, chicken with mushrooms, b.u.t.tered lamb, fried pigeons, roasted partridges, lamb's feet, goose stuffed with apples, brined anchovies, a huge red fish from icy waters up north, borek with shredded meat, egg with onions. They were served hoshaf in bowls and lemonade in pitchers. His appet.i.te now piqued by the delicious smells, Jahan tasted every dish. As they kept eating, the cesnici and kilerci walked around, making sure everything ran in perfect order. Then came the desserts: almond baklava, pear baked with ambergris, cherry pudding, ice-crushed sweetened wild strawberries and heaps of honeyed figs.

After dinner the guests collapsed outside on to the seats prepared for them. Fire-eaters pranced around in their s.h.i.+ny jerkins, tumblers turned backwards somersaults, sword-swallowers bolted down the sharpest blades. Three brothers appeared: a cemberbaz, who played with hoops; a s.h.i.+shebaz, who played with bottles; and a canbaz, who played with his life, doing a little caper on a cord stretched high above. When it was their turn, Chota and Jahan marched with feigned confidence. They performed, luckily without an incident, what few stunts they knew. Chota plucked the flower in Jahan's belt and gave it to the Bailo, who accepted it with a happy laugh.

Afterwards, the three of them the master, the apprentice and the animal departed from the palace, each drawing into his thoughts. There was a sense of finality in the air. The Bailo was going away, the summer was coming to an end. Sultan Selim had not emerged all evening, and there were rumours his health was deteriorating. It seemed to Jahan that, in truth, this world, too, was a spectacle. One way or another, everyone was parading. They performed their tricks, each of them, some staying longer, others shorter, but in the end they all left through the back door, similarly unfulfilled, similarly in need of applause.

Shortly after the inauguration of the Selimiye Mosque, the Sultan was laid low by melancholia. Such was his gloom that he could not even delight in the great monument to his name. Jahan found it odd that the ordinary folks who prayed in the mosque revelled in its architecture and splendour more than the sovereign who had paid for it. It was the humours in his body that were causing him misery. He had too much black bile in his blood and, as a result, could not help feeling sad day and night. He had been duly cupped and bled, and made to take h.e.l.lebore and vomit, but the sadness had not oozed away.

In the company of his master, fellow apprentices and Chota, Jahan returned to Istanbul. With the white elephant he settled back in the menagerie. It was there, one afternoon in December, that the Sultan showed up. He brought with him a Sufi.*

Jahan was in the barn, checking the elephant's fodder. Lately a series of younger tamers had been appointed to take care of Chota, one after the other, but Jahan still saw to the animal's needs, making sure he was looked after. So it was there, as he was checking the standards of care, that he heard the Sultan and the Sufi wending their way through the rose gardens. He climbed up to the hayloft. Through a crack in the wooden planks he spied on them. Selim's withered face had a sickly yellow hue, his beard was ragged, and he had put on more weight. His eyes were swollen. He must have been drinking again. Or else, Jahan realized with horror, crying.

The Sultan and the Sufi sat on a stone bench near the cages of the wild cats. Jahan could not believe that the Commander of the Faithful and the Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe had dropped himself down on that cold, grubby seat. Their voices were like the susurration of a river, and most of what they said he could not catch. Then he heard, spilling from the lips of Selim, 'Is it true that Allah loveth the purifiers?'

It was the Surah of Repentance, Jahan knew. The Sultan was so fond of the prayer that he had had it written in thuluth on the wall of a mosque he had commissioned in Konya. Jahan felt an immense sadness, which made him bolder than he normally would have dared. Leaving his hiding place, he went outside to welcome them.

'How is the beast doing?' Selim asked, having never learned Jahan's name.

'He is fine, my Lord. Would your Highness like to ride his elephant?'

'Another day, mahout,' said Selim distractedly.

There would be no other day. The same week, Selim fell down in the hamam and hit his head. They said he was drunk when he died. Others argued he was sober but so absent he hadn't seen where he was going. The son of a man too dominant, the ruler of an empire too vast, the bearer of a soul too tender, the dreamer of poems too delicate, Selim the Sot, Selim the Blond, Selim the Forlorn, left this world when he was fifty years of age. Nurbanu packed his body in ice, keeping his death a secret until her favourite son, Murad, arrived from his post in Anatolia.

Sultan Murad ascended to the throne. He first had his brothers executed and then buried his father. Even though he loved an imposing mosque as much as every other ruler, he valued neither majesty like his grandfather Suleiman nor beauty like his father Selim. Neither forza nor bellezza. What mattered now was utilita. Function over grandiosity. Function over beauty. From this day forth, nothing would be the same for Sinan and his four apprentices.

One night in the menagerie they awoke to an awful din. A jumble of neighing, barking, grunting, bellowing and groaning rent the air. Throwing his blanket aside, Jahan sprang to his feet. The other tamers were also stirring. Taras the Siberian, at ease in every calamity, was the first to walk out while the rest fumbled for their garments and boots. Groping like a blind man in the dark, Jahan stepped into the garden, where a wedge of moonlight glimmered shyly. There was a torrent of light pouring from above a cascade in every shade of red. It took him a heartbeat to recognize what it was.

'Fire!' someone shouted.

Jahan was witnessing yet another blaze in the heart of the palace. The gardens, pavilions and pa.s.sages, always so quiet you could hear the swish of your hair as you strode along, now pulsed with cries of help. The silence code dating back to the days of Sultan Suleiman had gone up in smoke.

The calamity had broken out on the other side of the inner walls, along the eastern edge of the second courtyard. Jahan knew what was located there: the royal kitchens. The pantry, larder, butlery and cookhouse were smouldering. Just recently the master and the apprentices had repaired those buildings. Now they were burning. The flames had jumped westward, slowly but steadily engulfing the aviary. Jahan wondered if anyone had set the birds free. The thought of hundreds of pairs of wings flapping in horror, unable to take flight, pierced him to the quick.

The first courtyard where they currently were was still untouched by the fire. Even so, the wind was strong, fickle. It blew in their direction every so often, bringing thick, grey ashes like dead b.u.t.terflies. The smoke p.r.i.c.ked their eyes, filled their lungs. The monkeys, seized by a fright larger than their reason teeth bared, eyes glazed were banging on the iron bars. The tamers had to move the menagerie to a place of safety.

That, however, was no small feat. Under duress animals were capable of the strangest behaviour. The royal gardens, though not their native domain, was nevertheless home. n.o.body could say how they would react when forced out of their cages into wooden crates. Having only a few carts at their disposal, the tamers could only proceed piecemeal, relocating a few animals at a time. Unprepared and baffled, they debated among themselves what to do. The Circa.s.sian grooms wanted to wait until they had received orders from the Chief White Eunuch. Another wave of fumes and cinders blowing in their direction was enough to silence them. There was no time to lose.

First they moved the apes. Not because they were more valuable but because no one could stand their ruckus. Next Jahan led Chota out of the barn. Wise soul that he was, Chota did not cause any problem. If anything, he was helpful, complacent. He didn't mind pulling the carriage on which they placed the monkeys and gorillas, many of them shrieking and jumping up and down, tottering like unruly drunkards.

The creatures that could trot out were allowed to do so horses, camels, zebras, giraffes, gazelles and reindeer. Fearing that a sudden noise could startle them into a stampede, the tamers were careful, alert. They tied the animals to one another by the neck, making a caravan of unlikely companions. Some mounted on horses, others on carts, the trainers followed their animals. Despite their care, no sooner were they beyond the palace walls than the zebras, as though jinxed, bolted down the hills, dragging the rest of the caravan with them. The tamers shot after them like demons. Drenched in sweat and dust and curses, they managed to rein in the zebras before they caused the entire herd to tumble over, one on top of another.

With the help of sticks and nets, treats and threats, they loaded the royal animals on to carts. Off went the snakes, chameleons, ostriches, turtles, racc.o.o.ns, weasels, peac.o.c.ks and the terrified llamas. Next came the foxes, hyenas, panthers and leopards. They transported them outside the palace gates and down the slopes towards an opening by the quay, unsure how far the flames were capable of reaching.

The elephant and the mahout made several round-trips, bringing fodder and water for the animals. When they were done, Jahan placed a basket of leaves in front of Chota, leaving him in the care of the Chinese twins, and returned to the menagerie for a last inspection. This was partly because of an old habit. True, since Captain Gareth had disappeared he had stopped stealing, but, like every thief, he knew that a fire was an unmissable opportunity to chance on unexpected riches. But this was not the only reason for his return. He was thinking about Mihrimah. For a while after the demise of her brother Selim she had not visited the palace. But tonight she, too, was in the harem. Was she frightened, Jahan wondered. He thought about her nursemaid, who must be having a terrible time breathing with her asthma. In a couple of hours, for all he knew, the flames could reach their chamber. He wanted to be sure they were fine and safe.

The guards at the gate were too distracted to pay him any attention. By now the blaze had drawn closer, lapping over the walls towards the rose gardens, embers leaping in a sprinkle of gold. When he reached the enclosure of the wild cats, Jahan was surprised to see the lions were still locked up two females and one male. The mighty beasts, restless and tense, paced up and down, growling at something in the distance as though faced with an enemy only they could detect.

Outside the cage stood Olev. Perky as usual he yelled, 'Hey, Indian. Why did you come back?'

'Just wanted to see if everything was all right. You need a hand?'

'My girls are scared; my boy doesn't want to come out. I'll have to drag them. Don't want the poor things burned to a crisp.'

Smiling at his own joke and without a weapon to protect him, Olev opened the iron door and entered the cage. Jahan watched him approach one of the females, talking in a calm, steady tone. The cat stood motionless, her gaze fixed on the tamer's every gesture. Gingerly, Olev placed a hoop around her neck and carefully led her out. He ushered her up a plank and into a wooden crate placed on a cart. Next he moved the second lioness in the same way. As she walked out, the male stared from a corner, his eyes two slivers of dark citrine.

The back of Jahan's neck felt hot. Apprehension began to creep over him. Dawn was breaking in the distance. There was something on Olev's face that hadn't been there before. The slightest quiver in his nostrils, a twitch of his mouth. It was the two of them in the cage the tamer and the lion. In his hand Olev held a rope, limp and listless, as if he didn't know what to do with it. For the first time Jahan saw him hesitate. The lion snarled, no more than an inaudible growl, as if he, too, were caught between opposing urges. Heart racing, Jahan grabbed a club and put one foot into the cage.

'Step back,' Olev said. 'Go away!'

Drawing a breath, Jahan did as he was told.

'Close the door!'

This, too, Jahan did. He felt numb, unable to think properly. Olev's flame-coloured pony-tail came loose, spreading out on his collar. He wiped the sweat off his brow, momentarily distracted. In that instant the lion turned to him with another snarl, as though he had just noticed him, as though this wasn't the man who had taken care of him for years, feeding him every day before he fed himself. The beast lifted his paw, his claws stretched open; he sprang on the man.

Olev fell down. There was not a trace of pain on his face, only astonishment. The look of a father disappointed in his son. Outside the cage Jahan dashed about like a madman, waving his arms, shouting. The club still in one hand, he hit the bars of the cage in the hope of distracting the lion. It worked. Pulling back, the animal took a few steps towards Jahan.

In the meantime, Olev stood up, unsteady. Instead of walking towards the door, he edged nearer to the cat, calling him. It happened so fast. Like a dream Jahan watched it occur, in front of his eyes. The lion, now taking his gaze off Jahan, turned back and pounced at his tamer, fastening his jaws on Olev's neck.

Jahan screamed, his voice that of a stranger. He smashed the club, kicked the bars, shouted at the cat. Finding a cudgel nearby, he ran back, too terrified to remember to pray. He went into the cage. There was a pool of blood where Olev lay. The lion, having lost interest in him, had returned to his corner. Slowly, not moving his gaze from the cat, though unsure what he would do should he spring, Jahan hauled the wounded man outside. Olev's eyes were open, flicking about, his throat spurting blood. His neck had been torn open, his jugular vein ripped. As soon as he dragged him out, Jahan closed the door. He didn't care if the flames reached the lion. He wanted him to burn.

They buried Olev in a graveyard not that far from the seraglio. The male lion, despite Jahan's wish, had survived. As it turned out, the flames never reached the menagerie and all their efforts had been for naught.

The royal kitchens were reduced to ashes together with parts of the harem and the Privy Chamber. Sinan and the apprentices would have to rebuild them all over again.

After Olev's funeral attended only by the animal-tamers and equerries something came over Jahan. He was seized by a presentiment, as if, in one death, he had seen the deaths of them all. He raged deep inside, not at the lion that had killed a friend but at everyone else; at himself, for leaving Olev on his own in that cage and acting too late; at the new Sultan, for not giving a tinker's curse about his servants peris.h.i.+ng while serving him; at Master Sinan, who, unaffected by disasters, kept making building after building; at G.o.d, for allowing them to err and suffer so yet still expecting them to pray in grat.i.tude. Yes, the world was beautiful a beauty that irritated him. What difference did it make whether they were hurt or happy, right or wrong, when the sun rose and the moon waned just the same, with or without them? The one creature he did not take umbrage at was Chota, and he spent as much time as possible beside him, soothed by his calmness.

The anger was not all. Something else accompanied it an ambition he had never known before. There was a part of him that wished to defy not only the master who had made him his apprentice, the Sultan who had made him his mahout, and the G.o.d who had made him weak, but most of all Mihrimah, who, during all these years, had made him a silent sufferer. He worked hard, spoke little. This, more or less, was his mood when Sinan and the three other apprentices arrived at the palace to, once again, repair the damage.

'We'll add new baths and pavilions by the sh.o.r.e,' Sinan said. 'The harem and the Privy Chamber need to be repaired. We shall enlarge them again. Everything we build ought to match the spirit of the building.' He paused for a moment. 'I want you to draw a plan. Whoever brings me the best, shall be my Chief a.s.sistant.'

Jahan was surprised to hear this. Until this day they had been treated as equals, even when they knew they were not. Now their master was making them compete against one another. He knew he should have been thrilled. Except his heart was not in it. Still, he worked though not beside the other apprentices in the shade of the gardens. He went to the barn, sat next to Chota and finished his sketches there.

A few days later Sinan wanted to talk to him urgently. Jahan saw that he had placed the designs side by side, all four of them.

'Come,' he said. 'I want you to look at these and tell me what you see.'

Not knowing which scroll belonged to whom, Jahan inspected the three drawings. He compared each with his own. It seemed as if he alone had proposed knocking down the baths and building them anew at the back of the harem. Even though Mihrimah no longer lived there, he had made his design with her comfort in mind. As he studied the sketches, he began to recognize the purposeful strokes of Davud, the meticulous tracing of Nikola and the light flowing hand of Yusuf.

'What do you think?' Sinan asked.

Uneasily, Jahan pointed out the best in each drawing. Sinan said, 'I know what their strengths are. Tell me their weaknesses.'

'This one was hastily done,' Jahan said. The other, he explained, in his desire to copy his master, had not contributed from his soul.

'How about this?' Sinan asked, showing Jahan his own scroll. 'I like that it cares about the harem population and makes it easier for them.'

Jahan felt his face burn.

'But it takes no notice of the surroundings. There's no harmony between the new additions and the old structure.'

Sinan's eyes glimmered. He took out the last design. 'And this?'

'Careful, balanced. He's respected the building and expanded it in proportion.'

'That's right. What I'd like to know is why your design, which is the better one, pays no attention to the palace.'

Jahan's face clouded over. 'I cannot say, master.'

'Yours was the best but it had one flaw. We do not raise buildings that float in empty s.p.a.ce. We reflect the harmony of nature and the spirit of the place.'

Thus the mute apprentice became the Chief a.s.sistant. Blus.h.i.+ng up to his ears, a shy smile hovering on his lips, Yusuf kept his gaze on the ground, as if he wanted to disappear therein. As for Jahan he had learned something about himself: that he had reached a point in his craft where he could either improve or destroy his talent. Davud, Yusuf, Nikola these were not his rivals. His most fearsome rival was none other than himself.

They spent the summer expanding the palace and repairing the areas where the fire had wreaked havoc. Accustomed as they were to toiling on all sorts of sites, this one felt different and oddly quiet. For once there was no idle talk among the labourers, no jokes or quips as they carried the planks, hoisted the pulleys or ate their soup. When they erected an uncut marble column, dozens of men pulling at once, the hawsers slas.h.i.+ng their palms, there were no shouts of Allah, Allah. Just as there were no words of praise from the foremen when one of them did a fine job, intent less on commending than on prodding everyone else to toil harder. Even the sounds of the mallets, saws and axes were less ear-splitting than usual. An awkward silence descended on everything, leaving them dazed, as if they had just woken up from a slumber. Such was the impact of being close to Sultan Murad.

During those weeks Jahan met servants he had never come across before and learned about halls he had not known existed. The palace was a maze of rooms within rooms and paths that drew circles, a serpent swallowing its tail. It was lonely enough to make you love your own shadow and crowded enough to leave you gasping for air. There were far more people under its roof than at the time of Sultan Suleiman more women in the harem, more guards at the gates, more pages serving more dishes. Like a fish that couldn't sense when it was full, the palace kept absorbing more and more.

Once the apprentices finished rebuilding the kitchens, they started the additions to the outer part of the harem. The concubines, having retreated into the inner chambers, were out of sight. Jahan hoped to see, if not Mihrimah, then something that belonged to her a handkerchief with her initials, a velvet slipper, an ivory comb. None of these he found. A few days later Mihrimah sent him word. She and dada were going back to her mansion. At midday we shall be pa.s.sing by the First Gate.

Seated on one of the higher branches of an apple tree, Jahan waited, elated and terrified. In the drowsy heat the sun glowed through the ripe fruits, which n.o.body dared pick because they belonged to the Sultan who had no time for such trifles. Jahan flinched at a distant rattle. A carriage appeared, moving slowly. It seemed to Jahan that he and only he had reached a standstill while the world had moved on. Everything was familiar in a strange way. Next to the vastness of the universe his heartbeat was inaudible. He was an observer. No more. The leaves rustled, the slugs inched forward, a moth's wings beat in the breeze. Jahan savoured every detail, sensing he would never have this moment again. Time became a river. He stood by the gra.s.sy bank and stared at the water flowing by, alone and forsaken. The carriage came to a stop. A hand, as graceful as a bird, fluttered out of the window and pulled the curtain aside. Mihrimah looked up to where Jahan was perched, her face softening as she took in his adoring gaze. She saw one more time that, despite the decades and the distances and the wrinkles and the greying hair, nothing between them had changed. Jahan took a long look at her, without averting his eyes or bowing his head; he stared straight into her eyes. Her lips curled into a tender smile and she blushed a little. She pulled out a handkerchief from her bosom, smelled its perfume, glanced up at him and then dropped it for him to come and fetch afterwards.

It was a sweltering afternoon during Ramadan fasting had slowed them down. Jahan didn't mind the hunger that much, but the thirst was killing him. No matter how many cups of water he drank at sahur,* as soon as he came to the site the next morning his mouth felt dry as dust. Hours later, unable to bear it any more, he would steer towards the back of the kitchens, where there was a fountain. He would rinse his mouth to get rid of the rusty taste. If he swallowed a few drops at the same time, so be it. It was a sin, cheating like this. Yet he was hoping G.o.d wouldn't mind if he consumed a few droplets of His endless water.

As he headed towards the fountain, Jahan noticed a figure ahead of him. Fast and furtive, it disappeared amid the bushes. He recognized the mute apprentice and began to follow his steps. He decided now was the time to talk to him to find out if he was the traitor.

Yusuf went straight to the pond where Chota would refresh himself now and then; he sat there, his face impossible to read. At first, Jahan thought he, too, had come here to quench his thirst. But all he seemed to be doing was staring at his reflection in the water, sad and subdued, as though he had just departed from someone he dearly loved. Jahan watched him for a while. So quiet and distracted was Yusuf that, save for the movement of his hands and the occasional glance he threw in the direction of the construction site, he might have been inanimate, another queer creature in the Chief White Eunuch's collection.

Then, as though in a dream, he took off his gloves. His hands were slender and white, without a trace of burns. Why had he lied to everyone, Jahan wondered. What happened next was more baffling. Yusuf began to hum a song. His voice, the voice no one had ever heard, was lilting, dulcet. Realizing he had stumbled on something dark, something he would not know what to do with, Jahan held his breath, studying the apprentice who, all this time, he had taken for dumb.

Yusuf fell quiet again; the moment disappeared. Jahan tried to retreat discreetly but in his haste he stepped on a twig. With a flinch Yusuf turned and saw him. His face fell, his lip jutted out like a child. So deep was his panic that Jahan almost ran to him to say not to worry; he would not reveal his secret. Instead he went back to work and tried to put the whole thing out of his mind. Still, he could not help glancing at Yusuf, who kept his head bowed low, his eyes fixed on the ground.

That evening after supper Jahan allowed himself to mull over the mystery. The hairless face, the long, curved eyelashes, the way he sat demurely with his gloved hands resting upon his lap. It was all beginning to make sense. The next morning he found Yusuf covered in soot and powder, drawing. Upon seeing Jahan, he darkened, his back stiffening.

'I'd like to talk,' Jahan said. 'Come with me, I beg.'

Yusuf followed him. They walked silently until they found a shady spot under a tree. They sat on the ground, cross-legged.

Jahan cleared his throat. 'I always envied you. You have a gift. No wonder master picked you as his Chief Apprentice.'

They were distracted by a pa.s.sing porter carrying a basket of stones on his back. Once his footsteps faded away, Jahan went on. 'But you were acting strangely ... I suspected you'd had a hand in the accidents.'

Yusuf's face crumpled in surprise.

'Now I understand there was a reason why you were secretive. You are not mute. You have been hiding your voice because ... you are a woman.'

His her eyes clutched at his, wide and frightened, as though Jahan were an apparition. Her lips moved, empty of sound at first a voice that had not been used for so long it faltered like a chick learning to fly. 'Will you tell anyone?'

'Well, I'm not trying '

Her hands trembling, she cut in, 'If you tell, it'll be the end of me.'

Jahan looked at her in awe and nodded slowly. 'I give you my word.'

Discovering the mute apprentice's secret had made Jahan curious not only about her but also about Sinan. He was certain his master knew. What's more, he suspected it had been his idea all along. Sinan wanted, allowed and encouraged her to work with them, a woman among hundreds of labourers, year after year, building after building. The whole week he pondered this dilemma. In the end he went to see him.

'Indian apprentice,' Sinan said brightly. 'You have something to ask, I can tell.'

'I'd like to know, if I may, how you choose your apprentices.'

'I pick them from among the skilful.'

'There are many such in the palace school. They'd make better draughtsmen.'

'Some might ' Sinan left the sentence hanging.

'I used to think we were the best students you had come across. My vanity! Now I understand we have talent but we are not the finest. You do not choose the finest. You go for the ones who are good but are ...' He halted, searching for the word. 'Lost ... abandoned ... forsaken.'

It was a moment before Sinan spoke. 'You're right. I choose my apprentices with care. Those with apt.i.tude but also with nowhere to go.'

'Why?'

Sinan drew in a slow breath. 'You have been to the sea, the big sea.'

Though not a question, Jahan nodded.

'Have you ever seen sea turtles washed ash.o.r.e? They keep walking, with all their might, but the route is a wrong one. They need a hand to turn them back, towards the sea, where they belong.'

Sinan pulled at his beard, which had whitened a great deal in the past months. 'When I saw you, I thought you had a great head on your shoulders, and would learn fast, if only I could turn you away from wrong habits, from the past, and direct you towards your future.'

As Jahan listened to his master, he found the word he was looking for: broken. He was beginning to understand what Sinan was doing, what he had been doing all along. Jahan, Davud, Nikola and Yusuf. The four of them, utterly different yet similarly broken. Master Sinan was not only teaching them, he was also, gently but firmly, fixing them.

Jahan kept his word. He did not share Yusuf's secret with anyone, not even Chota, seized by a superst.i.tion that it would pa.s.s on from the animal to the howdah, from the howdah to the people he carried. Gradually, during breaks, Yusuf told him her story or what remained of it and her name of many summers ago, Sancha.

There was a big, milky-white house covered in wisteria, she said, in a town called Salamanca. Her father was a renowned man of medicine. Tender with his patients, strict with his wife and children, he wished nothing more than to see his three sons continue his n.o.ble profession. He insisted that his daughter, too, should be educated. As a result every tutor who came to the house taught all four children. The summer she turned eight, the plague entered through the city gates. Death claimed the boys one after the other. Only Sancha was left, burdened with the guilt of being alive when those who were more beloved had gone. Her mother, numb with grief, sought refuge in a convent in Valladolid. Only Sancha and her father were left. She took care of him, though he clearly despised her efforts. Even so, little by little, he began to teach her. Not medicine, since he believed that women were by nature incapable of this, but other disciplines arithmetic, algebra, philosophy. He taught her everything he knew. Being a good student, she learned fast, at first less out of her thirst for knowledge than in the hope of earning her father's love. In time, she had better tutors. There was one architect, old and in penury, who spent a great deal of time instructing her, and in between lessons tried to steal kisses from her.