The Architect's Apprentice Part 12

'What do you want?' A husky voice came from behind so suddenly that Jahan almost jumped out of his skin. Upon turning round, he saw two men scowling at him.

'I need to see your leader ... Balaban,' Jahan said.

'How do you know him?'

'He ... he saved me once,' was all that Jahan could come up with.

He was taken to a tent in a shade of indigo so bold that even the blue jay in the aviary would envy it. On the walls were carpets with pictures of animals and flowers, and one with Abraham catching a ram to sacrifice in place of his son. In one corner, sitting by a stove, was a group of men and in their midst was none other than Balaban.

'Look who's here!' Balaban said. 'Why have you come, tell.'

'I need help. My elephant's lost his mind. He's in rut. I remember you said you had a female '

Before he could finish his sentence Balaban grabbed him by the robe, pulled out a dagger and held it against his jaw. 'Rascal! Scamp! You've got the guts to ask me to be your pimp! D'you want me to spill your blood here or shall we go outside?'

'No, effendi. I intend well. It's for the animals' benefit,' Jahan said in a grovelling voice.

Balaban pushed him away. 'What's in it for me?'

'If your elephant gets pregnant, you will have two animals,' Jahan said. 'You could make use of them both.'

Balaban weighed this up, unimpressed. 'What else?'

Jahan showed him the coin Sinan had given him, but Balaban again said, 'What else?'

Deciding to take another path, Jahan said, 'This elephant belongs to the palace. If you don't help me, the Sultan will be furious.'

'The Sultan, you said?'

Jahan nodded vigorously, confident that he had him now.

'You wretched toad!' Balaban kicked a cushion, which went flying to the wall, where it hit Abraham's ram and bounced back. 'Is this the Sultan's generosity? A chipped coin?'

'I beg you. Architect Sinan needs the elephant to work.'

The silence was unbearable. After a moment, and an exchange of glances, none of which Jahan could decipher, Balaban shrugged. 'Gulbahar is pretty as a lotus flower. You must earn her hand.'

'What do you want my elephant to do?' Jahan asked suspiciously.

'Not your elephant. You!'

Jahan tried to maintain a brave countenance but his voice cracked. 'Me?'

Just then the woman who had been suckling the twins appeared, carrying a tray with drinks and fried dough covered in syrup.

'First take a bite. He who shares my bread and salt is not my enemy,' said Balaban.

Jahan hesitated for a moment. He popped into his mouth a dough ball, savouring the sweet taste.

'Now have a drink. Can't walk straight when the road is crooked.'

'May our wives die if we don't knock these back in one go!'

Like them, Jahan downed the mud-coloured fluid in one gulp; like them, he brought down the cup with a thud on the wooden table; like them, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Although the drink was pungent, burning all the way down to his stomach, it was surprisingly enjoyable. Then they told him, in waggish detail and with boyish mirth, what they were daring him to do.

'Up to you!' Balaban said. 'Take it or leave.'

Whether it was his love for Chota, or his bull-headedness, or the drink, Jahan said, after a pause, 'Fine, I'll do it.'

The men walked out, leaving him with the women. Brazen, pert, they helped him to dress up as a dancer. A purple shalwar and a short embroidered vest that revealed his belly. They painted his face with a whitish powder that smelled of rice. They put kohl around his eyes, and reddened his cheeks and lips with crushed beetles, or so he was told. They reddened his fingers with henna and sprinkled rosewater down his neck. And on his pate they placed a horse's tail, giving him the strangest hair.

Balaban and his men came back, accompanied by musicians who, it turned out, could not play a tune without sn.i.g.g.e.ring. They strummed on their instruments and blew their horns a bit, and then one of them burst out laughing, the others following gleefully. Still, Jahan danced, if his clumsy moves could be called dancing. The Romanies watched, drinking, cackling with delight. When one of the men tried to hug Jahan with no decent intentions, Balaban hit his head with a wooden spoon and shouted, 'Behave!'

From then on Jahan danced more willingly, trusting that if he kept his part of the deal, so would they. Hours later, when he walked out of the tent clad in his old clothes, though with henna on his hands and kohl on his eyes, the coachman was nowhere to be seen. Jahan didn't mind. He did not have to make his way back on foot. He had a female elephant to take him.

Four days later Jahan returned Gulbahar. It took him a whole afternoon to locate the Gypsies, as they had moved again. The old women huddled in a corner greeted him with a smirk, which Jahan pretended not to notice.

'The dancer is back,' yelled a small boy. A cackle rose from behind him. It was Balaban.

'Felicitations,' said the chieftain, 'your elephant is no longer a virgin.'

'Gulbahar made Chota the happiest elephant in the world,' Jahan said with a bashful smile. Then, with a new realization, he added: 'You've done it again, Balaban. You've saved my skin.'

Every Wednesday, Master Sinan gathered his apprentices in his house and instructed them to design a building an aqueduct, a madrasa, a bath house or a bedestan. The young men took these a.s.signments with the utmost seriousness, seeing a chance not only to display their talents but also to outshine their rivals. Sometimes their task would be as straightforward as drawing a one-roomed hut. At other times a more demanding exercise would be set: how to reduce the number of columns in a mansion without diminishing its strength and solidity; how to make the best use of mortar, which, although it bonded well, led to nasty cracks as it dried; how to a.s.semble a criss-cross of water channels above and beneath the ground. Such exercises they were expected to tackle on their own. It was permitted to share the finer points of technique; but under no circ.u.mstances were they to see one another's designs.

'Architecture is team work,' said Sinan. 'Apprenticeship is not.'

'Why don't you want us to look at each other's drawings?' Jahan once asked.

'Because you'll compare. If you think you are better than the others, you'll be poisoned by hubris. If you think another's better, poisoned by envy. Either way, it is poison.'

One such afternoon they had each finished drawing a dervish convent when a servant announced that the master was waiting for them in the library. Putting their pens aside, they walked out wordlessly, burning with curiosity. Upstairs they found the master with scrolls unrolled and spread open to his left and his right. In the middle of the room, upon an oak table, was a wooden model.

'Come,' Sinan said.

Timid and awkward, the four stumbled forward.

'Do you know what building this is?' Sinan asked.

Davud, examining the model with a frown, said, 'It's an infidel temple.'

'The dome is admirable,' said Nikola.

'Where is this place?' asked Jahan.

'In Rome,' Sinan replied, waving his hand as if Rome were outside the window. He said it was called San Pietro, and when finished it would possess the largest dome in all of Christendom. Several architects had worked on it, some aiming to demolish the old basilica and start anew; others to restore it. The last draughtsman, Sangallo, had pa.s.sed away. The construction, at the behest of the Pope, had been a.s.signed to Michelangelo. Recognizing the name the bookseller had mentioned, Jahan p.r.i.c.ked up his ears.

Sinan said that Michelangelo, who was not young any more, had two choices. He could either disregard the existing designs or build on them. The decision would demonstrate not only his talents as a craftsman but also his character. Sinan spoke with such fervour that a surge of excitement ran through his apprentices. Yet all the while a thought tugged at the back of their minds: why was the master telling them this?

Reading their mood in one glance, Sinan said, 'I'd like you to see San Pietro. Study its design. Compare what they've done over there with what we're doing here. If you aim to excel in your craft, you ought to study the works of others.'

It took them a moment to grasp the full weight of his statement. 'You ... want us to travel to the land of Franks?' Davud faltered. 'And see the churches?'

'We follow our Prophet's advice: we seek lore near and far.' Sinan told them he had learned much from his travels in the lands of the Franks, in the Balkans, Anatolia, Syria, Egypt, Iraq and eastward into the Caucasus. 'Stones stay still. A learner, never.'

'But master, should we not teach them?' It was Davud again. 'They are Christians. Why should we learn from their ways?'

'Every good craftsman is your teacher, no matter where he may be from. Artists and artisans are people of the same faith.'

And, so saying, Sinan brought out two velvet cases, one thin and long, the other plump and round. Inside the first was an oversized silver pin and in the second an inward-curved lens, the size of a ripe apple.

'What is it?' Nikola asked, dropping his voice to a whisper, as though he were staring at some dark sorcery.

'It's a prism,' Sinan explained. 'We use it to observe how the sun's rays travel inside buildings. In a cathedral it would work well.'

'And this?' Jahan said, holding the pin on his palm like a baby bird.

'That's for the sound. Enter the buildings when there are few people inside. Hold the pin at the level of your head and drop it. Does the sound die off right away? Or does it reach the furthest corners? If so, ask yourself how did the architect achieve this? Can one make the sound flow like water, back and forth, in a gentle tide? In cathedrals this is done through the creation of a whispering gallery. Go and listen: you'll hear how the smallest sound is carried.'

Sinan spoke as fast as a pelting storm of hail. They had never seen him like this before, his eyes sparkling, his face lit up. He said there were three fountains of wisdom from which every artisan should drink abundantly: books, work and roads. Reading, practising and travelling. He went on, 'Unfortunately, I can't send away all of you. We've work to do. You need to decide among yourselves who will go. A trip for about five weeks.'

Nikola, Davud, Yusuf and Jahan stole furtive glances at one another, shoulders stiff. The desire to impress their master with their audacity clashed in their hearts with their wish to stay where everything was familiar. It was Yusuf who came forward first, shaking his head. He didn't want to go. Jahan was not surprised to see this. Like a small planet orbiting a bigger one, Yusuf always wished to be close to the master.

'How about the others?' Sinan asked.

'I can't go either,' said Jahan. 'Who would take care of the elephant?'

He wasn't exactly telling the truth. Another tamer could easily subst.i.tute for him, should the master arrange it with the palace officials. Yet Chota was only one of his concerns. He needed to stay close to Mihrimah. Lately she had been visiting the menagerie more often, wearing a troubled look in her beautiful eyes, as if she had something to tell but couldn't.

'My parents are old,' said Nikola. 'It'd be hard to leave them for that long.'

All heads turned to Davud. He sighed. 'I can go, master.'

Sinan gave an appreciative nod and said, to no one in particular, 'If any one of you changes his mind, let me know in a few days' time.'

The following afternoon, Mihrimah did not come to see the elephant. Nor the one after that. Instead Hesna Khatun arrived with the latest news from inside the seraglio.

'Don't wait for her,' she said. 'Your Princess is getting married.'

'What are you saying, dada?'

Her whole body suddenly convulsed with an asthma attack; she took out a pouch and inhaled its contents. A sharp smell of herbs wafted in the air. 'Don't call me that. Only she can.'

'Tell me,' said Jahan, ignoring all pretence at etiquette.

And she did. Mihrimah had been betrothed to Rustem Pasha, a man of forty winters and infinite ambition. No one liked him, but the Sultana did, and that was enough.

After the nursemaid left, Jahan worked on a new design, swept the barn floor, washed the troughs, burnished the elephant's armour, applied oil to the elephant's skin, destroyed the design he was working on and started another, greased the hinges on every door, made another sketch and destroyed it immediately, and forgot to feed Chota.

The menagerie was engulfed by gossip about the wedding throughout the entire evening. At midnight, Jahan could stand no more, and he sneaked outside. His legs and arms throbbed with tiredness, and his chest with a pain he had not known before. He walked until he reached the walls separating the menagerie from the inner courtyard, and once there, not knowing what else to do, made his way back again. He arrived at the lilac tree she had sat under as he had told her the story of Chota's birth and their journey from Hindustan.

The tree glowed in the dark, as though it were a gateway to a better world. He put his ear to its trunk, trying to hear what the earth was telling him. Only silence. Stubborn, scabby silence. The wind picked up, the air got chilly. A fog of sadness fell over the palace. He continued to sit, waiting for the night's cold to envelop him, numbing his senses. It didn't work. He still felt. It still hurt.

The next morning he sent a letter to his master. A short message.

Esteemed Master, If you still wish me to go, I will gladly accompany Davud to Rome.

Your humble apprentice,

Jahan.

Rome, the city where memories were chiselled in marble. The day they arrived it was raining a drizzle as light as a caress. Slowing down their horses to a trot, they rode aimlessly for a while. Each face was unfamiliar, every street more baffling than the previous one. Occasionally they pa.s.sed over a bridge, under an arch round or lancet or through a piazza teeming with pedlars and their customers. Jahan could not say what he had expected, but the city was large and lively beyond his ken. He and Davud, rigid and ill at ease, wove their way through the crowds. As they came upon the ruins of an ancient forum, they stopped and stared in awe. They saw friars wearing robes of black, mercenaries marching in pairs, beggars looking no different from the beggars in Istanbul. Women wore perfume pendants round their necks, and they cared to cover neither their hair nor their bosoms. Davud, blushing up to his ears, averted his eyes every time they ran into a gentlewoman with puffy sleeves and her handmaids. But Jahan looked, secretly. By mid-afternoon they reached the address Simeon the bookseller had written down. They found it with ease after asking a couple of pa.s.sers-by, who directed them, albeit with a hard stare, to the Jewish quarter.

Leon Buendia's shop in Rome bore an astonishing resemblance to Simeon Buendia's shop in Istanbul. Here, too, was a house on a cobbled, cluttered street; a faded, ancient wooden door; and, behind that, room after room of books and ma.n.u.scripts. Here, too, lived an elderly man with oversized ears and flaring eyebrows, perhaps not quite as ill-humoured as his brother.

'Simeon sends his regards,' Jahan said in Italian when they had been ushered in, seated around a table and offered a sweet paste of almonds.

'How is my little brother doing?'

Jahan said, 'Working, reading, grumbling.'

Leon broke into a smile. 'He was always a surly one.'

'He wants you to move to Istanbul,' Jahan commented.

'He thinks it's better over there. I'd like him to settle here. We're mortals. Decisions are sheep; habits, the shepherd.'

Jahan was reflecting on this when Davud said: 'We'd like to visit Michelangelo.'

At this the bookseller shook his head. 'I have enormous respect for your master. But you must understand that's not easy. Il Divino accepts no one. After two years, he's still grieving.'

'Oh, who died?' Jahan asked.

'His brother, first. Then, his favourite apprentice. That destroyed him.'

Jahan could not help but wonder how long their master would mourn if something happened to one of them. Meanwhile, the bookseller said that the apprentice, whose name was Urbino, had been with Michelangelo since he was fourteen years old. For twenty-six years the two of them had been inseparable. Such was the master's devotion to his talented apprentice that in the last months of the latter's illness he had not allowed anyone else to take care of him, nursing him day and night. After Urbino's death, Michelangelo, always a peevish man, had become resentful, ready to explode at the slightest bother.

'Il Divino doesn't like people. The few he does, he loves too much.'

Jahan arched his eyebrows. Their master wasn't like this. Sinan neither loathed nor shunned people. Balanced and well-mannered, he was kind to all. Yet perhaps there was a short distance between accepting everyone and not being too keen on anyone. If so, wouldn't it be better to a.s.sist a master who was unkind to everybody except you than a master who was kind to everybody including you?

Leon continued, 'Il Divino's dislike of human beings is reciprocated, surely.'

'He's got enemies?' Davud asked.