Jenny White - The Abyssinian Proof

“You know,” he said, “you don’t need to walk to be caretaker. It wouldn’t make any difference, would it? Malik could walk, but he never went anywhere.” Amida laughed, a desperate sound.

“You’re right. It wouldn’t matter.”

Amida looked relieved.

“There’s no rush, though,” Saba added, “now that the Proof is safe, there’s no need for a caretaker at the Kariye. It’s not there anymore.”

Amida was clearly unhappy. “How about caretaker of the Imperial Museum?”

Saba laughed to keep him company. “I think that job’s taken.”

“I can go through the ceremony,” Amida insisted. “I can sit in the chair.” He pointed to a wheelchair beside the bed. It was made of wicker and polished wood with a small chamberpot built into the seat.

Saba pictured Amida being wheeled in beside her on her day of triumph. She leaned over and kissed his cheek.

“Later, Amida. There’s plenty of time. Get well first.”

Amida closed his eyes and turned his head away. Tears gathered beneath his lashes. “Leave me alone now,” he muttered.

Saba turned and walked to the door. As she passed the servant, she told him, “Have him brought to the hamam this afternoon and make sure you find that special masseur Monsieur Courtidis recommended.”

“Yes, madam,” he answered with lowered head.

Since the day Saba had summoned the shocked servants to clean her room after Gudit’s attack, they had treated her with great deference. Perhaps, she thought with a tight smile, they were afraid of her.

Gudit hadn’t reappeared, nor did Saba inquire after her, but she learned with surprise and some satisfaction that the midwife had sought out Constantine Courtidis to tend to her wounds. Gudit would have to carry out the ceremony of accession. There was no one else. Then she would no longer be needed.

Saba opened the box and took out her scepter, which Kamil had returned to her. It would have been easier to establish her leadership, she thought angrily, if Kamil had done the right thing and given her the Proof of God. It belonged to the Melisites.

The guard at the Imperial Museum put down his rifle and unlocked the front door. He looked up at the Arabic inscription over the lintel. He couldn’t read it, but assumed it was a verse from the Quran, so he said a silent prayer before stepping across the threshold. Inside, the other guard was asleep in his chair. He nudged him and went into the kitchen to prepare the morning’s tea. It took him several minutes to light the brazier, set the water to boil in the bottom of the double-boiler teapot, and pour a cup of black tea leaves into the top. He stared out of the window, looking at nothing particular, but letting the golds and russets of autumn fill his eyes. When the water was hot, he poured enough over the tea leaves to cover them, put the teapot back on the boiler, and set it on the coals to brew for another twenty minutes. He glanced at the lay of the light to judge the time, then went back into the main room. He wanted to ask the other guard’s advice about finding an apprenticeship for his son. It was time he learned a trade.

The other man was still asleep, head on his chest, arms loose in his lap. When the guard pushed his shoulder, he slumped further, then slid from the chair onto the floor.

Kamil held his head in his hands. Standing before him was Hamdi Bey, his usually impeccable cravat askew and his vest buttons wrongly done up.

“It’s gone,” Hamdi Bey repeated.

Kamil stood and walked around his desk, his headache flaring with each step. He offered Hamdi Bey a seat and some refreshment, but the old man wagged his gray beard and refused to be coddled.

“What happened?” Kamil asked, bracing himself against a table and wishing Hamdi Bey would sit so that he could.

“Someone drugged the guard.”

“With food?”

“I don’t know,” Hamdi Bey cried out in bewilderment. “There was no food anywhere. Just dregs of tea. We tested them and they’re just tea. The man has always been completely reliable.”

“How is he?” Kamil asked.

“He’s delirious. He’s babbling about having been visited by an angel who showed him the gardens of paradise.” Hamdi Bey peeled off his thin leather gloves. “I think the strain of watching the Proof of God must have been too much for him.”

Kamil was surprised. “Does he know what it is?”

“We never told the guards what it was, but in the absence of real information, rumors are passed around.”

“What do you mean?”

“The other guard told me that they thought they were guarding a prophecy revealed to the Prophet Muhammad by an angel.”

“But that’s the Quran.”

“I know. They think this is a newly revealed sura.” He put on his pince-nez as if that would clarify matters, then took them off again and massaged between his eyes.

“They’re simple men,” he decided finally. He took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Now I have to go tell Ismail Hodja.”

Kamil stood at the window watching Hamdi Bey get into his carriage. When the horses moved off into the traffic, Kamil slammed his fist into the sill.

Two Weeks Later

The first snow of the season drifted over Sunken Village. Kamil, Hamdi Bey, and Ismail Hodja sat on stools in the Melisite prayer house in an unobtrusive spot where they could see past the worshipers and follow the ceremony unfolding at the front. Kamil could see Amida’s disappointment as he watched the proceedings from his wheelchair, Courtidis hovering nearby. Omar had decided, as he put it bluntly, to live and let die, and not arrest Amida on any charges.

The hall was packed with villagers of all ages, dressed in their best. Earlier, to a wild crescendo of drumming and a steady undercurrent of prayer, an ox, a ewe, and a she-goat had been sacrificed and their blood poured into the pillars by the door. A blood-spattered peacock feather lay in the snow before the sacrificial stone.

After the ceremony, Courtidis had told them, there would be a feast in the hall and the community would dance and sing. Kamil noticed that he looked happy and relaxed and that his clothes were clean and neatly pressed. He wore a fashionable suit and a new fez. He slipped Kamil a small tin box, which he tucked into his pocket.

Suddenly, all conversation ceased. Kamil saw Saba enter the room. She was dressed in a magnificent linen cloak embroidered with gold. Two fillets of gold-embroidered linen fell on either side of her face. She looked like an empress. Kamil could feel the powerful impact her presence had on the people in the hall.

The crowd opened a path before her. In her hand, she held the scepter, now innocent of Malik’s blood. Near the front of the hall waited a stout old woman in a red robe. Her face was split from nose to ear by a wound, not entirely healed. Two apprentices dressed in red stood on either side of her.

When Saba reached the front of the hall, she turned, raised her arms, and led the congregation in prayer.

Ismail Hodja whispered to Kamil, “Fascinating. They’re praying in Ottoman, but they use terms like Adonai. That’s from the Tawrat . It means lord. I’ve only heard Jews use it. And watch their hands. The motions are like a tour of all the religions.”

Of them all, Ismail Hodja had been the most philosophical about the disappearance of the Proof of God.

“In an odd way, the disappearance reaffirms my faith,” he had explained to Kamil. “It’s as if the Proof is traveling in the world incognito. It won’t settle and reveal itself until humanity is ready to hear its message. We’ve been enormously blessed that it allowed us a glimpse before returning to occultation.”