Page 25 of There Are Rivers in the Sky

—O— ARTHUR

On the way to the River Tigris, 1872

K ing Arthur of the Sewers and Slums crosses the English Channel for the first time on a blustery day in March. It would have been easier to wait for less inclement weather, but he feels bound by a sense of duty. He also fears that public attention towards Mesopotamia – perhaps towards any subject – is fickle. He needs to be on his way before people lose interest in the Epic of Gilgamesh .

The sun is descending as his ship leaves British shores, and by the time he is out in the open water it is dark all around. He can hear the churning of the sea, feel its power, but see no further than the crests of the waves lapping at the hull. A gibbous moon, a day shy of fullness, glows between banks of clouds. Trying to dispel his fears, he turns his attention to his companions. There is a group of pilgrims on their way to the Holy Land: a surly theologian who speaks to no one and a merchant who, conversely, cannot keep quiet. Arthur wonders why his fellow passengers have felt compelled to leave their warm beds to embark on such a perilous journey in the middle of the night. He cannot explain why he himself is here, for that matter. Why is he so obsessed with unearthing ancient tablets that have lain broken and buried under the ground for thousands of years? The question, once asked, sets off a ripple of other questions, as a leaping carp leaves a trail of watery wreaths in its wake. Sometimes he cannot tell whether he has been hypnotized into seeking the River Tigris or is simply running away from the River Thames.

He is beset by memories of his visit to the asylum – the listlessness in his mother’s moves, her slow, sluggardly slide into death, which has haunted him ever since. In leaving London to seek adventure in a far-off land, is he not abandoning her? He reminds himself that he cannot help her until he has advanced his career and earned decent money, but this kind of reasoning, rational and reassuring though it might be, does little to dispel his sense of remorse.

Halfway through the voyage, they are caught in a squall of hail – the waves rise to dizzying heights, the wind is unrelenting. The ship rocks from side to side, heaving with the swelling sea. It occurs to Arthur that he might perish here, sinking to the bottom of the water whilst dreaming of rescuing tablets from the bowels of the earth.

‘First time crossin’?’

It is the merchant, watching him with curious eyes.

‘First and last, if I can help it,’ says Arthur.

Smiling, the merchant produces a silver flask out of his jacket. ‘Take some – it helps.’

Although never much of a drinker, Arthur accepts the offer with gratitude. The liquid burns down his throat but sits warmly in his belly.

‘It gets easier – you’ll see.’

The merchant relates how he has traversed the Channel multiple times and intends to keep doing so until the end of his days. Once you have savoured the taste of travel, he says, your life will never be the same again.

Arthur arrives in Paris just as leaves are bursting out of their buds and daffodils are blooming in parks and gardens. He is excited to be in a city he has heard so much about. He feels like he already knows this place through stories, its many poor and destitute through his own experience, and its streets and alleys through his imagination. Above all, he wishes to see that legendary river – the Seine, and its younger sibling, the Bièvre. The latter, though smaller, has inspired poets and writers galore. Arthur has read Rabelais, and ever since wondered about the stream on whose banks they caught quails and fished for frogs and crayfish. He has read Victor Hugo, and remembers the descriptions of water in Les Misérables . Spurting forth from its source in Guyancourt, a fast-running and boulder-strewn torrent, the Bièvre has been flowing through the city for centuries, providing not only precious water but also ice supplies for Parisians.

On the way to the boarding house where he will stay overnight, he saunters with long, swinging strides, drinking in his surroundings. In London he never allows himself to relax, never taking a moment’s respite to enjoy the songs of wandering artists or to smell the flowers straggling over high brick walls, but he can do that now that he is in a strange city and a stranger himself. He strolls through the beaux quartiers – neighbourhoods that abound in stylish boutiques, smart brasseries and gilded cafés with marble tables on the pavements where customers sit and sip absinthe, wine and lemonade, and laugh as if they have cast all their worries to the winds.

He recalls an essay – word for word – in which the French journalist and publisher Julien Lemer wrote that there is so much light spilling out from the shop windows from Rue Louis-le-Grand to Rue de Richelieu that one can read a newspaper as one ambles along. He observes the recently widened cobbled streets, bordered by tall trees and illuminated by gas lamps – a perfect execution of Haussmann’s grand ambitions. As he meanders along the promenade, a feeling of lightness overcomes him, as though he were treading barefoot on moss. People, elegant and confident, stream by him on both sides, seemingly in no hurry. He has never before experienced this kind of easy assurance. The poverty and hardship of his upbringing have kept him from knowing such luxuries. He has no idea what it is like not to have to work every moment of each day, to go for a walk for no other reason than to see and to be seen.

But, before long, the cityscape begins to change. Colours fade, shadows deepen. Arthur strays into alleyways so narrow and sordid that if some upended carriage isn’t blocking his way, then an unbearable stench is repelling him. There are cesspools everywhere. In the central arrondisements, many lanes, though visibly overcrowded, have no proper drainage. Stagnant water and raw sewage collect in murky puddles, appalling the senses. From the mills and tanneries, debris and carcasses are tossed into the Bièvre, as the river flows laboriously in sinuous curves before its confluence with the Seine.

Like London, the contrast between the neighbourhoods of the rich and the impoverished is so palpable it is hard to imagine they are all living in the same capital. But there is something else separating these communities, something less visible and tangible. It is their relationship with time. The wealthy do not have to rush after ticking clocks; they simply glide through each day, dandling the hours in their hands, wearing them like elegant gloves. For the poor, however, time is mere rags, tattered scraps that are never enough, no matter how much you pull and tug at them, neither covering goose-pimpled flesh nor providing any warmth.

Before Arthur leaves Paris, he visits the Louvre Museum to see the artefacts from Mesopotamia. He has read quite a bit about the famous building, originally constructed as a fortress, and changed and rebuilt time and again, like a poem in the making. But experiencing it up close leaves a deeper impression on him than he expected. If the Louvre were a poem, it is dedicated to unabashed beauty and passion and sensuality but also to power, materialism and possession. Inside, displayed behind glass cases, polished and pristine, he finds relics that by now have become familiar – cuneiform tablets, glazed bricks, pieces of lapis lazuli … There are also massive, human-headed, winged bulls from the palace of Ashurbanipal, solitary and displaced, just like the ones in the British Museum.

Two days later, early in the afternoon, Arthur is on board a new ship – a steamer with three masts and sails up, ready to embark on its journey across the Mediterranean. The vessel, not reliant on the direction of the wind, slices through the waves, leaving a pale trail in the water, hungrily swallowed by the deep. They follow old seafaring lanes, etched on maritime maps like whorls on fingertips. The harbour of Marseilles, the straits that divide Corsica from Sardinia, Sicily, Palermo, the Bay of Navarino, a spectacular sunrise over Etna …

The colour of his eyes changing with the light reflecting off the sea, Arthur spends many hours on deck, watching with wonder places he had never dreamt of. Everything he sees he commits to memory, despite his seasickness. His face pale, his stomach churning, and his hands grabbing the railings cold and clammy, he is nevertheless enthralled by the power of water.

An oddity of sea voyages is that they force even the most private of souls to converse with strangers. Amongst the various people he meets is one who makes an impression on him: a plant hunter from an island in the Caribbean, the grandson of Maroons who escaped slavery. The young botanist is on his way to Bhutan to find new species of flora and bring back seeds. In the course of their conversations Arthur learns that the man has never seen snow.

‘Oh, it’s magical,’ says Arthur. ‘The most stunning form of water.’

‘Does it have a taste?’

And Arthur, without missing a heartbeat, replies, ‘It tastes like mother’s milk.’

Once he overcomes his seasickness, Arthur starts reading the books he has brought along. There is so much he wants to learn about the Levant – history, food, folklore, customs – though whether any of this will be of use to him in Nineveh he cannot possibly say. Deep inside, he feels worried. Never at ease around other people, he cannot imagine how he will ever manage to communicate with those from another culture. He suspects that his scholarly skills, whilst they may bring him some recognition in England, will not get him far in the eyes of the Ottoman authorities. Deep down he fears he is the wrong man for the task. He should have never left home, never ventured beyond the River Thames. Yet he knows of no one as obsessed as he is with the missing lines in the Epic of Gilgamesh , and perhaps that, in itself, makes him the right man for the task.

Doubt is corrosive for the traveller, and Arthur is full of it. But, as hours at sea evolve into days and he is still alive, both his fear and his uncertainty, though not entirely vanquished, give way to a new feeling, almost a thrill. He may not be a hero, but he is exhilarated to be setting out on an odyssey of his own. He yearns, with a force he cannot resist, to follow the siren call that has been summoning him since he was a boy.

Three magical syllables: Ni-ne-veh .

‘Tomorrow, come on deck at the crack of dawn!’ the captain says. ‘The entrance to Constantinople by sea is a sight like no other. If you do not want to miss it, rise early!’

These words cause a tangible anticipation amongst the passengers. The children run around, the men chatter animatedly with each other, and the few women on board retreat to their cabins to get prepared. Even seasoned sailors seem invigorated. Leaning over the rails, Arthur peers into the horizon, trying to fathom what the excitement is about, but all he can see is a wall of fog.

The following day, before sunrise, he wakes to the sound of hurried footsteps. Groggily, he splashes his face with water, dresses and joins the others. Some passengers have brought telescopes, even though the sky is still pitch black. As the ship inches forward, the chill of the night wears off. In a little while, the thinnest sliver of crimson slashes open in the sky, light bleeding into the darkness. Nobody speaks a word, the silence complete and all-encompassing. In this state, they edge towards the mouth of the Bosporus, which divides two continents: on the one side lies the European coast; on the other, the Asian, though it is hard to tell where exactly one ends and the other begins.

The captain announces, ‘We’re almost there!’

His eyes adjusting to the dissolving gloom, Arthur stares into the distance, but he can discern no more than a few gauzy silhouettes. Then, as if a curtain is lifted from above, the fog dissipates precisely as dawn breaks above their heads in all its glory, with the sun’s rays – purple, orange and the brightest fuchsia – revealing the crenellated walls, silvery cupolas and soaring minarets of a sprawling city. Arthur recognizes the dome of the Hagia Sophia from drawings he studied at the publishing press. He holds his breath, as miles and miles of settlement unfold before him, like a silken scarf. The palaces, the kiosks, the pavilions, the konaks and the trees – terebinths, spruces, cypresses – all come alive. The Golden Horn flows ahead in a glittering ribbon – more river than sea. The ship steers between the hill of the Seraglio on one side, and Kad?k?y and Scutari on the other, until Galata and Pera heave into view, glowing with light. Arthur, stationed at the bow of the ship, turns around to take in the view, and then stands still, transfixed.

‘Quite something, isn’t it?’ says the captain, appearing at his side.

‘It is astounding.’

‘Yes, indeed, but be careful.’ The captain gives a chortle. ‘It is a peculiar city, I have learnt to my cost.’

‘Why do you say that?’

The captain leans closer, a whiff of spring onion on his breath. ‘Well, because it has a greedy mouth, Constantinople – make sure it doesn’t swallow you, like it has so many others.’

‘I’m passing through,’ says Arthur. ‘I will be staying only a few days – and then I’ll be on my way to Nineveh. I am not interested in Constantinople.’

‘Sure,’ says the captain, with a sidelong glance.

Arthur can feel his scepticism like a knife poking into his ribs.

It is well into the afternoon by the time Arthur disembarks, picks his way down the gangplank, bids farewell to the captain and is reunited with his luggage. He assumed the British Embassy would send someone, but there is not a single soul waiting for him.

Anxiously, he scans the port, which swarms with officials, merchants, sailors and stevedores bustling along the seafront. Ships of all sizes are moored along the dock – clippers, schooners, steamships and frigates – a thick forest of masts as far as the eye can see. Horses and carts deliver goods and cranes heave large crates of freight, swinging to and fro over the heads of passers-by. Hawkers circle around new arrivals, gabbling away. Over the din, Arthur can hear the slap of the waves against the hulls, the swelling of the water, the squawk of a seagull pecking at the litter nearby, the soughing of the wind through the rigging. Suddenly, he feels uncomfortable. He feels afraid.

‘ Farangi , welcome. Need help?’

Arthur spins around to find a weedy, short man with speckled skin and tired eyes. His callused hands, sunburnt face and hunched back indicate beyond doubt that he is a porter.

‘How much?’ Arthur asks, his voice rough with strain.

The man mumbles a few words in Turkish. Arthur accepts, trusting it is the right amount and he is not being taken for a fool.

‘Do you know the way to the British Embassy?’

The porter gives a curt nod.

‘Very well, let’s go,’ says Arthur, trying to sound confident. ‘Do you have anyone to help you?’

But the man, having hauled one trunk under each arm and one on his back, is already trudging away.

‘Wait for me,’ Arthur yells.

A sonorous male voice cuts through the air, followed by others, the sounds reverberating from every direction. Arthur halts, confused. It takes him a moment to realize that the plaintive tones are the call for afternoon prayer spilling from the minarets nearby.

A wave crashes against the pier, spraying his face with mist. He is ambushed by the memory of a frigid day, so long ago it might have been a dream, the taste of snow on his tongue, the feel of his mother’s hair, golden against the grey sky. The vision, for that is what it feels like, disappears as quickly as it appeared. Wiping his face, he hurries to follow the porter. He cannot have known, but the briny welcome that greets him in Constantinople on this afternoon in 1872 and the snowflake that melted in his mouth as a newborn in London in 1840 are one and the same.