Gardens of Water (78 page)

The click of the shutter echoed across the floor, a crack in the solace of still air.

Peace and blessings of God be upon you.

AFTER PRAYERS, SINAN SHOWED
smail the hair of Muhammad pressed in sealed glass and gold leaf. He lifted
smail up to see the embroidery on the green shroud draped across Eyüp Ensari’s tomb, and he couldn’t help but think of
rem’s casket being lowered into the ground. They ran their hands across the cool tiles outside of the mosque, the floral designs rising on the walls like an untamed garden.

But none of it seemed to impress
smail and they made the trip back to the ferry in silence. The boat arrived and Sinan held his son’s hand as they pushed through the crowd to board. They descended the stairs into the ship and sat down in the very back where there were no windows and the rumble of the engine cut out the sounds of the world. Sinan slid
smail against the wall and wrapped his arm around his shoulders and didn’t let go of him until the ferry left the dock.

“I’m proud of you,
smail,” Sinan said. “You prayed very well.

You’re a good Muslim.”

The boy said nothing.

“You’re a man now,” Sinan said, “and men have to control their feelings.” He didn’t really believe this—or he was unable to do it himself—but it seemed like the right thing to say. “You have to think of your mother. You have to be strong.”

“Why’d you send
rem away?”
smail said, watching his fingers pinch the end of his shirt. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

smail was silent and rolled the end of his shirt into a little cigarette and unrolled it again.

“Did you love her?”

“Yes, I did.”

They were quiet for a while, the clanking of the engine gears growing louder in his ears, and in their silence Sinan could feel his son’s accusation. He wanted to tell the boy that he did it for him, but the truth was he simply wanted to share the burden of his guilt.

“She hurt me,” Sinan said.

smail looked at him and he felt stupid for saying it.

“I was wrong.”

“Where’s she now?”
smail said.

Sinan looked at his son—the ridge of his brow concealing his eyes, the bridge of his nose, his eyelashes blinking like insect wings.

“She’s in the cemetery,
smail,” Sinan said. “You know that.”