Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

Avi reached into his other pocket and fished out a key and a cigar.

Kamil turned the cigar over in his hand. It had a yellow and red label with a picture of a red rose and the word Cuba on the band.

“Where did you get these?” But Kamil already knew the answer. Cuban cigars, as Magnus Owen had pointed out to him, were rare. He found himself profoundly saddened by the realization.

“I took them from the man’s pocket when he got stuck in the wall.” Avi stood with his head bowed.

Omar burst out laughing. “You pickpocketed him while he was stuck in the wall? Wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.” He stopped laughing when he noticed Avi was crying. “No, no, my son,” he said gently, putting his arm around Avi. “I meant that in a good way. I blundered and you saved the day. Again.” He punched him lightly on the arm. “So, how many times are you going to be a hero today? Are you trying to show us up?”

“Avi,” Kamil chimed in. “This is very helpful. I think I know who the man is, thanks to you.”

“Who?” Omar asked curiously.

“First I want to be sure. I need to check on something, but I’ll let you know. Why don’t the two of you go home and I’ll see you tomorrow. You can take the day off, Avi.” He smiled at the boy, then frowned when he noticed his scraped hands. Some of the scabs had begun to bleed. “Where are your bandages?”

“I took them off so I could work better.”

Kamil remembered the desperate, skinny boy who had accosted him on the street. He had wondered how Avi had survived. Now he knew or at least could guess. He would never truly be able to grasp that kind of life. He thought about the young refugee woman on the street with her baby.

Kamil watched Omar and Avi turn the corner, the police chief’s big hand resting on the boy’s shoulder, then set off in search of a carriage.

Amida squatted over the cloaked figure sprawled facedown amid the weeds and listing grave markers in the old cemetery behind the Fatih Mosque. He lifted the cloak. Beneath it was a dark-skinned boy with a thick mat of tightly curled black hair, a dark fuzz of down outlining his upper lip. His neck was arched back coquettishly, one cheek pressed against the earth, lips parted in a grimace of what could either be pain or ecstasy. His eyes were closed, but his face held nothing of repose, only hard absence. With trembling hands, Amida pulled the cloak back farther and saw that the boy was naked. Lines in the shape of two peaks had been carved into the boy’s back. Amida crouched over the body, rocking back and forth on his heels, making a thin keening sound.

A breeze suddenly sprang up. The cypresses creaked and sighed. Amida sat up and looked around nervously. Seeing no one, he tucked the cloak around the body as if putting a child to bed, then stood and ran out of the cemetery, through the courtyard of the mosque, past the tomb of Sultan Mehmet II, and down the Street of the Lion-House.

Tailor Pepo’s establishment was down a covered passage off the Rue de Pera that was crammed with shops selling bolts of cloth, ribbons, thread, buttons, and other items needed in the trade. It was only eight in the morning, but Tailor Pepo already stood at a long table, measuring lengths from a bolt of fine white linen. Three apprentices took up the rest of the small room, each hunched over a shirt, needle in hand. They looked up surreptitiously when Kamil entered, but immediately returned their attention to their work.

“Welcome, Kamil Pasha,” the old man said in a voice so low Kamil could barely hear him. “Sorry.” He pointed to his throat. “Doctor says I have a growth. Doesn’t bother me, but can’t speak.”

Kamil thought the tailor had aged since he had last come in six months earlier to be measured for a shirt. The man’s face was gray and his white hair had begun to yellow as if stained with nicotine. He began to cough and one of the apprentices brought him a glass of water.

“Sit. Sit.” Tailor Pepo pointed to a stool.

Kamil explained that he was looking for someone he thought might be a customer of the shop. He took the silver money clip out of his pocket and laid it on the cutting table. The eyes of the apprentices flashed curiously in their direction.

Tailor Pepo picked up the clip and ran his hands over the incised hunting scene, a leaping stag being dragged down by hounds. He turned it over. On the back was engraved the initial M.

“Monsieur Owen,” he said.

Kamil leaned in to hear him better.

“A cruel scene, n’est-ce pas?” He leaned close to Kamil’s ear. “I didn’t like this Monsieur Owen. I can tell a lot about a man by his shirts.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

“He first came here about two years ago. One of my regular clients recommended him, said he was the British ambassador’s secretary.” He leaned forward. “I think he wanted to butter Monsieur Owen up for a deal.” He shook his head knowingly, then started coughing again. “I made Monsieur Owen a shirt to help my regular client, and we delivered it to my client’s address. Then six months ago, Monsieur Owen came and ordered another shirt.”

The apprentice hurried over with more water. While Tailor Pepo was drinking, the young man glanced at the money clip.

“Do you remember this?” Kamil asked him.

The apprentice looked inquiringly at the tailor, who nodded his approval.

“He gave an address in Tarla Bashou. Not that it’s a bad area, not like Galata. It’s just families in Tarla Bashou. There aren’t many Franks living there. And since Monsieur Owen said he was employed at the embassy, I found it odd.”

Tailor Pepo stood suddenly and cried out in his diminished voice, “We haven’t offered the pasha any tea.”

The apprentice leapt to the door and called down the passage, then sat down and picked up his shirt.

“With your permission,” Kamil said politely, “I’d like to ask the young man some more questions.”

“Of course. Take your time. We’re all at your service.” Tailor Pepo went back to his measuring, his scissors biting into the material with a sound like tearing silk.

A boy appeared at the door, a tray of glasses swinging from his hand on a thin metal tripod. He plucked one off and handed it to the apprentice, who placed it before Kamil.

“What else can you tell me about Monsieur Owen?”

The apprentice’s hands continued their deft needlework as he answered Kamil’s questions. “I went to Tarla Bashou to deliver the shirt. The apartment was on the second floor. I knocked but there was no answer, so I went to leave the shirt with the doorkeeper. He told me the man who rented the apartment was an agent of trade by the name of Megalos. I wanted to make sure I was delivering to the right address, so I asked him to describe the tenant. The doorkeeper said he rarely saw him, but from his description it sounded exactly like Monsieur Owen. The doorkeeper didn’t think he actually lived there but used the apartment for business. He said the neighbors were always complaining to him about bulky trunks coming in and out and blocking the stairwell. It is odd. I mean, a proper business would have a depot.”

“What do you know about business?” Tailor Pepo rasped from his cutting table.

Agents of trade were go-betweens in business deals, paper shufflers and deal makers, not shopkeepers, Kamil thought. Owen was involved in something quite different.

“There’s one more thing.” The apprentice looked uncomfortable. “It’s just gossip.” He glanced at Tailor Pepo.

“Go ahead,” the old man said. “Leaves don’t flutter unless there’s wind.”

“I heard that Monsieur Owen lost his position at the embassy last year. He was accused of taking bribes.”