Page 29 of There Are Rivers in the Sky
—O— ARTHUR
On the way to the River Tigris, 1872
W eeks have gone by, and Arthur is still waiting for the firman that will allow him to travel to Nineveh. A nervous tension suffuses his every movement and gesture. Each day he asks the clerks if they have any news for him. Each day they advise him to be patient.
It is the same clerks who send for him one evening before supper. The dragoman who accompanied him to the Grand Bazaar is also in the room.
‘We were talking about you, Smyth. We all concurred that you are in need of some diversion,’ says the dragoman. ‘You have been in Constantinople for weeks, but you have hardly seen anything.’
‘I have seen quite a lot,’ says Arthur. ‘I go on walks.’
‘Walks will only take you so far. Constantinople has many faces, but she only shows one in the daytime. You must meet her in moonlight. Tell us, what are your plans tonight?’
‘I will be in my room – reading.’
‘Forget your books, come with us.’
The three men insist so much that Arthur yields. He follows them out, intending to excuse himself from this unexpected engagement as soon as he can. But the next thing he knows he is hustled into a carriage, the seats soft and plush. After a short ride, they get out and make their way down a dimly lit street until they reach a house with a tall gate and a brass door handle. The dragoman knocks twice, waits a few seconds and knocks once more.
A boy opens the door. Without a word, he ushers them into a room decorated with heavy curtains, silk cushions and soft rugs. Large trays have been set up in the centre, laden with drinks and delicacies.
Arthur glances around anxiously. ‘What kind of a house is this?’
‘The best kind,’ says the dragoman. ‘You would not want to leave Constantinople without a proper Oriental experience.’
Arthur flushes crimson. The memory returns, unbidden, of the day he went to the publishing house with his father, the eyes of the prostitute in St Giles still boring through him all these years later. He makes a move to leave, at the very moment that the door opens and a woman enters.
Prostitution in Constantinople is an acrobat, a skilled equilibrist. It walks a tightrope strung over and below the city walls, every step dangerous. Houses of ill repute, kerhane , operate in various locations, surviving in the aperture between what is regarded as sin and what is deemed to be permissible. Every now and then, some local constable, dissatisfied with his bribes or prodded by a burst of sanctimony, decides to close down a brothel and have all the women working there arrested. At other times, angry mobs, led by a zealous imam or a fiery preacher, march to an infamous address and attempt to torch the building with the residents still inside. On such occasions, the whole neighbourhood wakes up to the shouts and cries of terrified women and mortified clients escaping through the back windows into the shadowy night. Prostitutes banished from the capital are pardoned every few months, after which some remain in exile, while others return, only to be ousted again.
The public baths – hammams – can also be the setting for illicit encounters. Similarly, on the outskirts of the city, the caravanserai provide a discreet service of their own. For those who cannot rent a room, the kayaks gliding across the Golden Horn offer a bed of sorts – although this has its own risks. Should the boat capsize in a moment of passion, the couple will find themselves tumbling into the waters beneath. They will then have to swim ashore as silently as possible for, if caught, they will be punished. And those who can’t even afford floating pleasure may visit the graveyards where the poorest streetwalkers ply their trade for the price of a sweetmeat.
Meanwhile, in slave markets across the empire, hundreds of women, many taken as trophies of war, are auctioned to the highest bidder. Stripped naked and shamelessly displayed, their teeth, breasts and genitals inspected, these captives are regarded as mere commodities. They will be sold and resold many times. If in the future they bear their master a child, they may earn the right to freedom – provided the man agrees to release them, which rarely happens. Although lately, with several reforms introduced, a few of these markets have been closed by imperial order, the trade continues to thrive underground. Sometimes a woman will be sold for one night and bought back the next morning, only to be peddled on to someone else, and this will not be regarded as immoral or sinful. And those who profit from this transaction need fear neither risk of legal penalty nor the wrath of pious mobs.
Arthur, who is not aware of any of this, stares at the woman who has just entered the room. Beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, he stumbles over his words: ‘Terribly sorry, there has been a misunderstanding … I did not ask for this.’
‘Of course you didn’t,’ the dragoman says. ‘It is our gift to you.’
Arthur shakes his head. ‘I don’t want gifts. Please make my excuses to the lady –’
But to his surprise the woman seems to understand English. ‘Don’t go, my pasha. Why leave early?’
It is only then that Arthur realizes that this woman – stubby, full-necked and about his mother’s age – must be the madam who runs the place.
She smiles, returning his gaze. ‘You like music?’
As if on cue, three young women sashay into the room, carrying musical instruments. They sit on cushions and begin to play – a slow, sweet melody.
Despite himself, Arthur cannot take his eyes off the third woman, clad in a jade-green dress, with lustrous copper hair cascading over her shoulders; on her lap sits a flat wooden soundbox with horizontal strings.
‘You seem to like what is before you?’ asks the dragoman, his lip curling into a sneer.
‘Beautiful,’ says Arthur.
‘Glad you think so.’
‘And so ancient.’
‘Pardon?’
‘I have seen pictures,’ says Arthur.
‘Pictures!’
Arthur nods. ‘I had read it was found in digs across Mesopotamia, but I never knew how heavenly it sounded.’
‘Are you talking about the damned instrument?’
‘Yes, the qanun ,’ says Arthur impatiently.
‘The qanun !’
‘Indeed, the word means “rule”, “principle of life”. From Greek, καν?ν, “kanōn”. Also, “canon” in Latin. Quite fascinating.’
The dragoman shakes his head. ‘What a waste of time bringing you here. One can only conclude that your tastes are on the other side. You should have told us your inclinations were unconventional .’
‘But of course he likes women,’ says the madam, pulling Arthur by the elbow. She fills a glass with a colourless drink that turns grey when mixed with water and offers it to him. ‘Here, have some.’
Shaken by the hostility in the dragoman’s voice, Arthur complies. The liquid burns his throat like fire. The smell of anise is overpowering. He drinks a bit more, takes a seat and closes his eyes, listening to the music.
A rare calm descends upon him. The vine motifs woven into the rugs, the inlaid gold and silver bracelet on the madam’s wrist, the needlework on the damask curtains … every detail in the room takes on the lucent intensity of an illuminated medieval manuscript. Shapes and patterns blend into one harmonious swirl. His heartbeat slows, and he feels at peace.
The others, amused by how much he enjoys the music, tiptoe out, leaving him alone with the red-haired woman. She continues to strum, her fingers plucking the strings as though with a force of their own, until, suddenly, she stops.
Arthur opens his eyes. He finds her looking at him quizzically. ‘Please carry on,’ he says, gesturing. ‘If you don’t mind, that is.’
She does not object. Gradually, the songs take on a sadder tone. He wonders if the earlier melodies were for the clients, while the latter are for her ears only. As she plays, Arthur inspects the qanun . He marvels at its elephant ivory, tortoiseshell plectrum and taut strings stretched lengthwise. So this is ‘the piano of the East’, the soundbox capable of achieving the most sublime and haunting notes. This is what consoled the Ancient Mesopotamians when they were lonely or heartbroken, and lifted their spirits in times of need. And these are the strains that delighted King Ashurbanipal on many afternoons as he reclined on soft cushions in his library, reading poetry.
The raqi makes him drowsy, the music even more so. He dozes off on the low sofa, all the tension in his body fading away. He could have spent the night there, descending into a peaceful sleep, if it were not for a scream that pierces the air. It sounds like it is coming from the street, though it feels disturbingly close. Voices multiply, rebounding off the black dome of the night. Arthur realizes with horror that a crowd has gathered in front of the house.
‘What’s going on?’
But the woman has already darted out, without taking the instrument. When Arthur follows her on to the landing, he finds people scurrying up and down the stairs – prostitutes and clients in sheer panic.
‘Oh, there you are!’ The dragoman shouts over the din. ‘Quick, we need to get out of here. There’s a fire!’
Arthur pales. ‘In the house?’
‘The entire neighbourhood. We must leave now.’
‘But what about the clerks? Shouldn’t we look for them?’
‘They know the way out. Hurry up.’
‘Wait a moment!’ Arthur rushes to the room. Grabbing the qanun , he charges back. ‘We cannot abandon this!’
No sooner do they step outside than a wave of heat hits them in the face, acrid smoke stinging their nostrils. The sky is an open furnace. Dust and debris fly over their heads. A thick layer of ash coats everything. In the distance, they can hear glass smashing, someone wailing. People dart back and forth, hauling away pieces of furniture, trying to salvage what little they can from the flames.
A band of half-naked men, their faces painted and their hair covered in soot, charge towards a burning house. Slung across their shoulders are coils of ropes and water pumps.
‘These are the firemen – tulumbaci ,’ says the dragoman. ‘Some are quite mad, but they are incredibly brave.’
After what feels like an impossibly long wait, the firemen emerge, carrying boxes and trunks, the last of them holding a canary in a cage. They immediately go back in, sweat flowing down their necks, as the wooden beams crash and collapse around them, columns burning as easily as drawings on paper.
Two thirds of Pera goes up in smoke that night. The homes of Muslims, Jews, Christians are reduced to smouldering remains; 9,550 buildings are destroyed. More than 2,000 lives are extinguished. Only after the wind has died down and the fire has abated will the bewildered inhabitants begin to take in the awful destruction visited on their neighbourhood, days earlier a peaceful and prosperous quarter of Constantinople.
Hours later, Arthur arrives at the embassy premises, exhausted from the walk back.
He finds the senior clerk waiting for him.
‘We’ve been looking for you, my dear fellow. The ambassador wants to see you urgently. We were worried the fire had consumed you.’
‘I am all right,’ says Arthur. ‘What will these poor people do now? They have lost everything.’
‘They will build again. Earthquakes and fires … Constantinople has been through it all. Wooden houses are burned; wooden houses are rebuilt.’ The clerk drops his voice. ‘You won’t be here to see it, though. Your wait is over. The ambassador himself will give you the news, but you heard it from me first. Your firman has arrived. You will soon be on your way down the River Tigris.’
His heartbeat accelerating, Arthur lifts up the qanun . ‘I need to return this.’
‘Keep it, Smyth.’ The man shrugs. ‘The place where you got it has probably burned down. Take it with you. Maybe you’ll learn to play it. It is a long way from Constantinople to Nineveh.’
After washing his face, combing his hair, and perfuming his collar and cuffs, Arthur climbs the marble staircase to say farewell to the ambassador.
‘Smyth, good to see you. Please take a seat.’
Something in the man’s tone alerts Arthur, but he doesn’t dwell on it. ‘I have heard the good news.’
‘Pardon?’
‘My firman . It has arrived, I believe.’
‘Oh that … Yes, yes, I had forgotten.’
Arthur’s heart constricts. ‘Is that not why you wanted to see me?’
‘No, I am afraid … We’ve received a letter for you. It’s from your brother.’ The ambassador averts his gaze. ‘Your mother … she has gone the way of all flesh – my condolences.’
Arthur closes his eyes for a moment. The vein on his forehead pulsates. There is a pounding inside his head, which he doesn’t yet recognize as pain. ‘How … how did it happen?’
‘I fear knowing the circumstances will not make the news easier to bear.’
‘I do need to know. Pray, tell me.’
‘Lately she had been improving, and the doctors had allowed her to go on walks around the grounds. She managed to get hold of a knife …’
Arthur rises to his feet. ‘May I be excused? I would like to be alone.’
‘Of course, I understand. Again, my condolences.’
Arthur stumbles towards the door, his legs heavy, as if he were wading through mud.
‘Oh, Smyth … About your trip, we will do everything we can to make it easier, now that the firman is here and you have permission from the sultan to excavate for your poem – unless you have changed your mind and you would like to go back to England, which can also be arranged.’
Arthur shakes his head. He will not return to London now. He will finish what he started. He will go to Nineveh.
Outside in the courtyard, the pine trees tower over him, silvery and needle-sharp, as if a giant seamstress has used the green hillside as her pincushion. The scent of honeysuckle mingling with sea salt makes him feel nauseous. His eyes wander up towards the sky, which is riven by clouds. A seagull glides on the wind, but its choking call, a high-pitched whining caw, when it comes, sounds too close to keening at a funeral.
Home is where your absence is felt, the echo of your voice kept alive, no matter how long you have been away or how far you may have strayed, a place that still beats with the pulse of your heart. There is no one waiting for him in London – except perhaps Mabel. But in the light of their brief and superficial courtship, he does not expect her to miss him. As for his museum colleagues, they will simply absorb his duties. With no one left to regret his loss or to cherish his childhood memories, he no longer has a home.