The Water Diviner (13 page)

Back in his room he walks over to the decanter of Scotch whisky on top of the timber tallboy and pours himself a generous portion. Without returning the decanter to the tray, he throws the drink back in a single draught. Connor isn’t much of a drinker back home, and the alcohol hits him immediately, burning his throat and making him wince, then spreading with a warm glow through his gut. Without another thought, he pours himself a second hefty slug and walks to the door of his room. After the trying day he hopes a strong drink and some fresh air will help hone his thoughts.

Connor makes his way to a pair of French doors at the end of the hallway, which open out onto a small terrace overlooking the garden and the city skyline. Small pools of light illuminate the streets, and windows are aglow with lamplight as Constantinople prepares to turn in. The smell of wood fire is strangely comforting as night creatures buzz and trill in the sultry spring air, and the narrow lanes echo with the clip-clop and creak of beasts of burden dragging cartloads of produce homewards.

From the great mosque on the hill the call to prayer rings out, lilting and musical, but also strangely forlorn. Connor has no truck with the God peddled by Father McIntyre and his ilk, a supreme being who seems intent on inflicting needless suffering and loss on his subjects as thanks for a lifetime of penance and servility. He doesn’t know much about the heathen God, Allah, but judging by his demands on his people – compulsive bathing and attendance at church five times a day – he’s no more reasonable than the Christian God. The plaintive carolling ringing out from the mosques across the city sounds to Connor like the cries of men desperately seeking something.
Does God hear their pleas?
Connor doubts it.

He drains the last of his whisky and turns to go back inside. He senses her before he sees her; hears the tinkle of her fine gold bracelets and charms, and detects a sweet and exotic scent – cinnamon and citrus rind. Natalia leans against the doorjamb, one hand resting on the swell of a voluptuous hip. Her full lips, plumped and daubed with rouge, curl seductively into a broad smile and her blue eyes, rimmed and highlighted with heavy kohl, are hooded and inviting.

As with their embarrassing encounter outside her room, Connor doesn’t know where to look. Natalia’s soft and ample breasts swell above the line of her satin corset, skin as white and flawless as anything Connor has ever seen. She makes no attempt to cover herself with the diaphanous gown she wears draped over her shoulders and loosely held together at the base of her neck by a black, silk ribbon.

Connor moves to step past her, sidling into the hallway, but Natalia stops him, gently taking his hand in hers. Her fingers are soft and supple, childlike next to Connor’s weathered, calloused shovel of a hand; her touch feels as delicate as a sparrow alighting on the branch of an oak tree.

Across the city, one by one the imams reach the climax of their performance, helping men move one step closer to God. Connor draws breath, wanting, needing; conflicted, confused. Yet at the same time, not wanting, not needing, fighting a desire he feels strongly is wrong, trying to accede to the disquiet that is shrieking at him to retreat from this uninvited advance. But the smell of her is overwhelming, intoxicating. Her soft touch is warm and promises release. Release, and relief. Connor doubts he’s ever needed it more.

Natalia takes Connor’s rough-hewn hand in hers and draws him into her room. The light is low and a scarlet scarf draped over a lamp casts a red glow over their faces. As Connor relaxes into the warmth of the room his eyes settle on the objects he glimpsed through the doorway at their last encounter – the last vestiges of Natalia’s once different life that scream a silent agony. On the dresser are the wigs; Connor imagines them as disguises – places for Natalia to hide for a short time and become whoever she wants to be. Connor has only this one scarified skin.

Standing close to him, Natalia tugs on the satin bow at her throat and her sheer gown drops to the floor. Every muscle in Connor’s body is poised to flee but his eyes are riveted to her breasts, rising and falling with her quickening heartbeat.

He catches himself before he is completely lost in her.

‘No . . . Sorry, I can’t.’

Natalia reaches for his shirt buttons with experienced fingers. Leaning in, she kisses his neck and chest as he is intoxicated with the scent of cinnamon in her hair. She coos something in Russian in his ear, her voice soothing and mesmerising, then pushes her hands inside his shirt and runs her nails playfully across his back. She slides her fingers inside the waistband of his trousers and circles slowly towards the front, where she searches blindly for his belt and buttons. Natalia speaks in breathy broken English. ‘It’s all right . . . It’s all right. You are a man. A man alone. I can take away your lonely. Let me do for you.’

Connor closes his eyes and surrenders.

Natalia’s hand finds its way inside his pants. He tries to speak but cannot. She begins rubbing him, gently at first, and watches his face. He is simultaneously aroused and repulsed by his own weakness.

‘No, please. I shouldn’t,’ he pleads.

‘Yes,’ she says, ‘this is best for sadness,’ and then purrs softly in Russian, whispered words that break down all his resistance.

She moves her hand faster and faster as Connor’s breathing becomes shorter and more urgent. He stares at the row of wigs behind her. Then in one brief, humiliating moment his thighs stiffen and he groans.

‘Yes,’ she says in English. ‘
Da
.’ She places her ear against his bare chest, as if listening to his heartbeat. Mortified and confused, Connor does up his belt and shirt and lurches for the door, desperate to be in the sanctuary of his own room.

‘Stay,’ says Natalia, but in vain. He hurries past her.

Connor backs into the hallway and, to his horror, encounters Ayshe standing only metres away, extinguishing a lamp. As if things are not strained enough with her. The heat of disgrace washes up his neck and cheeks. Ayshe’s look of surprise betrays her. It’s clear she had thought better of him. Connor watches her gather herself, nod formally and rush away. He barrels round the corner into his room; ashamed, confused, guilt ridden – and feeling more vital than he has for years.

Lizzie was the only woman who had ever touched him there, and never quite in that way. When they were together she had lain quietly under him, knees up while he pumped her. For Connor, their union was always marred by Lizzie’s unspoken sense of duty. Nothing was ever reckless or free, for either of them.

After the news of the boys they had hardly touched each other. He had tried once or twice to be closer to her, but Lizzie could not bear the intimacy. It was as if she felt their union might somehow be an assault on the memory of the beautiful boys they had made together. When they’d died she’d been stripped of her motherhood, and had stopped being a wife too. So it has been four years since Connor has felt a woman’s skin on his, and he feels doubly guilty. He has been unfaithful to his wife’s memory – and worse, the encounter has awakened a dormant longing in him.

Connor peels off his clothes and falls onto the mattress. Despite being emotionally and physically drained, his night’s sleep is fitful and broken. What has defined him for half his life, his family, is evaporating away from him like a dam in drought.

T
he salon curtains are open but the cheery morning light does nothing to lighten Connor’s mood. Exhausted and embarrassed, he sits at a small table set for one. He avoids Ayshe’s disapproving eyes as she attends to a silver-haired Turkish man in a suit several tables away. They are the only two people here at breakfast. Connor recalls Omer’s performance on the morning he arrived in Constantinople, referring to an imaginary list of guests in search of a vacant room; there is no hiding the fact that the Troya is desperately quiet.

Connor has packed his case. He plans to find another hotel, especially after last night’s encounter. There does not seem to be much point in waiting around in Constantinople. But without a permit to go to Gallipoli he cannot be certain how far he will get. This muddle churns through his mind as he fixes his eyes on the tarnished chandelier hanging from the ceiling, and counts the missing crystals. Suddenly Ayshe is standing before him holding a tray.

‘Last night . . .’ he begins, not certain why he feels he needs to explain. ‘Never in my life have I done anything like that.’

‘I am not your wife. Tell her,’ replies Ayshe directly. ‘Here is your breakfast.’

She sets a plate down in front of him and glides off towards the kitchen. Yesterday, keen for an early start, Connor had a simit on the street with Orhan so this is his first Turkish breakfast and already he can see it bears no resemblance to the breakfasts he is used to. Some of the ingredients he cannot even put a name to. What are those black pellets with the wrinkled skin, and this soft white substance that crumbles under the fork? It tastes salty and smells like wet wool. He recognises the tomato and cucumber but pushes them around the plate, wondering if he has come down at lunchtime by mistake.

Ayshe reappears with Turkish coffee on a tray just as Connor puts one of the black olives to his tongue. From the kitchen doorway she spies him spitting it back into his hand and putting it discreetly back on the plate. As he does, her father slides into the chair beside him. She pauses for a moment, enjoying Connor’s discomfort as Ibrahim begins to chat to him conspiratorially, from behind his hand.

As she approaches the table she hears Ibrahim speaking earnestly, in French, and cannot help but smile to herself.

‘I am glad you are here Professor. Sultan Mehmet’s second son has haemorrhoids the like of which I have not seen before.’

‘What’s he saying? Who is he?’ Connor asks Ayshe.

‘This is my father, Ibrahim. He thinks you are French.’ She kisses her father’s forehead and places a miniature cup and saucer before him.

He continues to speak to Connor in fluent French. ‘The anus has prolapsed so much that it now resembles a bunch of grapes. Passing stools is most painful for his young Excellency. It must be all the rich food.’

Ayshe pauses. ‘He hopes you are enjoying your breakfast. He noticed you are not eating.’

Ibrahim leans in. ‘Would you consider assisting me in lancing and draining the nodules? It would be a great honour.’

Connor smiles and nods, completely at sea. ‘I am. Delicious. Thank you.’

Ayshe smiles and Connor seizes on the momentary amnesty. ‘I wonder, sorry, would you have a boiled egg – from a chicken?’

The smile slides from Ayshe’s face. She swoops on the rejected breakfast plate and marches to the kitchen before she says something she will regret.

Ayshe slams the food down on the kitchen table, close to tears. The Australian has no idea how expensive it is to find fresh food in the city since the war. Or how demeaning it is to have to coax and beg for the honour of paying the inflated prices for it. She resists the urge to race back into the salon and tell Connor just how lucky he is to have cheese at all.

If it were not for a grateful former patient of Ibrahim’s who lives on the outskirts of the city, there would be far less. Since the occupation began, to add insult to injury, the British –
his
British – spirit away any produce that arrives from the outlying villages, to feed their troops.

Orhan, who is sitting at the other end of the kitchen table with Omer, jumps up to seize some of the village cheese.

‘Orhan, we are not done. Finish this last
surah
, then you can eat,’ says Omer firmly as he pushes the open Koran towards the boy. ‘You haven’t taught him anything, Ayshe.’

‘I can’t bear that room anymore,’ she cries. ‘It used to be so full of laughter.’

‘The life your father promised was a mirage, Ayshe. You cannot pretend to be European anymore.’

‘What are you talking about? This building stands in Europe.’

Omer smiles sympathetically. ‘We are clinging to the edge of a continent that does not want us. Surely the war has taught you that much?’