The Water Diviner (22 page)

‘I apologise, Major. I really do. But Admiral Calthorpe will have to reschedule your meeting. Something rather urgent has come up, I’m afraid. Perhaps Tuesday next week? Would that suit?’

‘Yes – if your admiral could also reschedule the Greeks,’ spits Hasan sarcastically. ‘Perhaps ask them to tear Anatolia apart the week after that.’

‘Major, we are simply trying to restore order here,’ says Brindley lamely. ‘And your friend Mustafa Kemal and his Nationalist rabble are not helping.’

His insult cuts fast and deep. Hasan’s thoughts immediately go to his young countrymen swinging outside the palace walls, hanged for daring to challenge the division of their homeland, its various parts handed over to the highest bidder. But rather than anger, a sudden wave of self- loathing washes over him. He realises he has been played for a fool. Any hope he’d harboured that his cooperation at Çanakkale might have made the British more amenable to Turkish interests and aspirations has been shattered.

‘If we don’t help ourselves, who will?’ Hasan asks – of himself as much as Brindley.

Brindley holds his hands together, palm against palm, in front of his chest, head bowed and eyes closed patronisingly.

‘Allow us to handle the Greeks through diplomatic channels, Major. You can rest assured we have no intention of giving this marvellous city back to them.’

‘And the rest of my country?’ snaps Hasan, now incensed.

‘Come, now, Major; let’s not have another war.’

His sanctimonious tone is too much for Hasan. ‘It’s the same war,’ the Turk yells. ‘It hasn’t ended.’

Hasan’s sword hilt crashes against the doorjamb as he storms from the room. Thrusting his jaw forwards with fury, he marches double-time down a long corridor, trying to put as much distance between himself and Brindley as possible before he does something regrettable. At least now he knows where he stands. And he knows what he must do.

Outside, Connor is walking towards Brindley’s office beneath the colonnaded verandah when he sees Hasan crashing towards him with his fist clenched tight around the hilt of his sword. Connor smiles and holds out his hand.

‘Major Hasan, hello. Can you tell me . . .’

The Turk flashes him a murderous look. ‘No. I can’t tell you anything. I have finished helping.’ He barrels past without stopping.

Bewildered, Connor watches Hasan stride into the distance. He thinks of a hawk riding a current until it disappears in the shimmering midday sun. He could swear the two men had left Gallipoli on good terms. Nothing seems straightforward to Connor in this country. When he turns back, an agitated Captain Brindley is standing before him, grimacing like he has a mouthful of broken glass.

‘Ah, Mr Connor. Welcome back. Do you have your passport with you?’

Connor fishes his travel documents from inside his coat and holds them out. Brindley inspects them cursorily and then tucks them into his own tunic pocket.

‘Thank you.’

Before Connor can object Brindley is marching away.

‘This way. Now.’

Brindley’s tone is ominous. All Connor can do is follow, riding in the officer’s wake until he tires or his anger subsides sufficiently to explain what the hell is going on. Connor is here to find out what he can about the Turkish prison camps Hasan mentioned. He is sure the British must have a map – names of survivors, lists of men registered for Red Cross POW packs, something like that. But the further Brindley marches into the labyrinth of offices and storerooms, the more unsettled Connor becomes.

They climb a narrow set of stone stairs and Connor pauses at the top to look through a timber screen into a small courtyard below. Guards have barricaded a wooden gate with crates and barbed wire and stand with bayonets poised. It seems like overkill to Connor.

‘You can never be too sure,’ warns Brindley over his shoulder.

The captain cuts through a room where four junior officers sit chatting and smoking while a fifth man pushes on typewriter keys with his index fingers and curses the carbon paper that is caught in the roller. They snap to attention and salute as Brindley passes and waves his fingers across his forehead.

As Connor closes on Brindley the officer turns to face him.

‘You were specifically ordered not to go to Gallipoli.’

‘Well, I’m not in your army.’

Brindley continues curtly as he walks. ‘That man . . . the man you attacked – yes, we heard all about it – is a Turkish war hero. He was there on our invitation, to help our expedition down there. The sole reason you are not in prison right now is that he refused to file a complaint. From what I’ve heard, he had every right to.’

Connor has no intention of apologising to Brindley. It was a dispute between two men. It had nothing to do with the government or the army. Nor was he going to give Brindley the satisfaction of an explanation. They are passing an open double doorway. Across Brindley’s shoulder, Connor catches a glimpse inside of a table covered in rolled-up charts and maps. He stops abruptly.

‘He told me my son was taken prisoner. Show me where the prison camps were and I’ll be out of your hair,’ promises Connor. It doesn’t seem an unreasonable proposition.

‘All the prisoners of war were repatriated,’ says Brindley bluntly. ‘If he did not come home, the sad reality is that he is dead.’

‘So you’re telling me there was no one too sick, or too badly injured that –’

Brindley cuts him off, slamming his peaked cap against his leg in frustration. ‘No, there is not, Mr Connor!’ But he can see that the Australian is unmoved. He grabs Connor by the arm, and frogmarches him into the adjoining map room.

Connor finds himself staring up at a vast, hand-painted map that occupies almost an entire wall. Laid out before him is the Ottoman Empire at its zenith. The piece is so immense and exquisitely detailed in gold leaf that it could only have been commissioned by a regent determined to awe visiting dignitaries with the extent of his domain. Snakelike Arabic calligraphy edges the map’s border, as elegant as it is utterly impenetrable to Connor. However, it seems an overzealous British bureaucrat has nailed small signs with the English translations alongside the map and each of its features. Connor reads, ‘Sovereign of the House of Osman, Sultan of Sultans, Khan of Khans, Ruler of Rulers,’ it reads. ‘Commander of the Faithful, Successor of the Prophet of the Lord of the Universe, Protector of the Holy Cities of Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem, Emperor of Constantinople and the cities of Damascus, Cairo and Baghdad, of Cyprus, of Rhodes, the Black Sea, Greece, Albania, Tunisia, Georgia, Turkistan and many other countries, forts and castles.’

Brindley steps closer to the map and speaks without turning to Connor.

‘The Ottomans had one of the biggest empires of all time.’ He points. ‘From the gates of Vienna to Mecca, from Casablanca, here, to Tehran – and right now you’d be hard pushed to find a more dangerous place on earth, Mr Connor.’

Connor’s eyes dart across the wall. Even to his untrained eye, this is much more than a map. The brilliant blue seas, the lush green lands and the golden desert sands affirm God’s greatness, while the fortified cities with their magnificent domes and minarets show the Sultan’s dominion over man’s greatest creations. The Ottoman Empire brings together earthly and heavenly treasures and the Sultan is both ruler and Allah’s curator.

Beside each castle or city are wandering gold lines that make up their Arabic name, plus the small sign giving their English translation. Connor spots Constantinople, then quickly finds Baghdad, Damascus, Aleppo and Jerusalem. It dawns on him that renaming the locations is the first step on the way to controlling them.

Brindley continues with his lesson in local politics as a corporal arrives, snaps to attention and hands Brindley a large brown envelope.

‘The Bolshies want the Black Sea; the French and the Italians want the Aegean.’ He moves to the centre of the map and stabs at it with a blunt, well-manicured forefinger. ‘And here in Anatolia, where, incidentally, the prison camps were, the Greeks are turning the place into a bloodbath that makes Gallipoli look like a rugger match. Where, pray tell, in all this would you like us to start looking for your missing son?’

Connor’s attention is piqued by Brindley’s mention of prison camps. He steps forwards and starts running his index finger in a circle over central Anatolia.

‘So, you say the prison camps were in this area here? Would the Turks have records? We could ask.’

Brindley loses his temper, shouting now. ‘The camps are gone! All gone. He’s gone, and so are you.’

He thrusts the large envelope into Connor’s hands. ‘This is your ticket for a steamer to Brindisi on Thursday morning, compliments of the British Government. Make sure you’re on it!’

Taking control of himself, Brindley adds a hollow, ‘Good luck,’ as an afterthought. He calls to the corporal who now stands in the doorway. ‘You! Show Mr Connor to the gate, and assign a guard to his hotel. Make sure he doesn’t miss his steamer on Thursday.’

‘Sir!’

‘And if he puts a foot outside Sultanahmet – arrest him.’

The corporal marches over to Connor and begins to lead him by the arm. As they pass Brindley, the officer puts his palm flat on Connor’s chest and leans in so that their hat brims almost touch.

‘Say by some miracle, your boy, Arthur, is alive,’ Brindley speculates. ‘Have you bothered to ask yourself why he has chosen not to come home?’

After a moment of frozen silence, Connor shrugs himself free of the corporal and storms out, and Brindley feels a momentary pang of regret. Brindley is not a cruel man but he knows he has been reduced to his absolute worst by Connor’s stubbornness and unrelenting optimism. In difficult times, personal traits such as these are exasperating indulgences.

The truth is that Connor is in the worst hell already – forced to leave Constantinople without knowing the fate of his son Art.

That reality is far worse than anything Brindley could say to him.

‘T
hursday morning. Bright and early,’ says the corporal as he marches Connor towards the main gate of the War Office. As an afterthought, he adds a gentle warning. ‘He’s a stickler. He means it.’

Connor drops his shoulders, defeated and deflated. He knows that when he boards the ferry, the blast from its horn as it leaves port will signal the end of any hope he might have of finding his missing son. The thought of returning home not knowing what has become of Art has already begun to eviscerate him.

As he is nudged into the street Connor notices that the rallying crowd has started to disperse. Their anger is still palpable as small clusters of men make their way down the hill towards the city wall, waving their arms and arguing impotently amongst themselves.

Connor pulls his hat down over his brow, thrusts his hands into his coat pockets and fixes his gaze on the stone road under his feet as he picks his way from Topkapi. No man built like Connor, or dressed as he is, is going to simply blend in here. He has never felt more foreign or vulnerable. Connor curses himself for not bringing Orhan to help him find his way back to the Troya.

In the distance he sees Major Hasan’s familiar woollen hat weaving its way through the crowd of fezzes and crocheted skullcaps. The Turk is the only person – out of all his own countrymen and supposed allies – who has seemed willing to help him. Perhaps, away from the War Office and the watchful eyes of the British, the major could be convinced to tell him more. One thing is certain, Connor has nothing to lose.

Hasan moves through the crowd easily as Turks step aside for him, occasionally taking his hand and kissing it or exchanging the poetic greetings that are a central part of public life in Constantinople.

‘Peace be with you.’

‘May peace, mercy and God’s blessings be upon you too.’

During one of their lengthy walks around the city, Orhan had attempted to translate some of these greetings for Connor, and tried to explain the protocols.

‘A man riding a horse should greet a man walking, but a man walking should greet the man sitting down. If they are in groups, the smaller group greets the larger one. If you are entering a house you should give the greeting too. It is in the Koran. And when you meet someone who has had a haircut or a shave, you give the blessing that you hope it lasts for hours. If someone gives you food, they wish you good eating, and you wish health on their hands.’

Suddenly to Connor his regular ‘Hello. How are you?’ and ‘Good, and how are you?’ seemed thoroughly inadequate.

Further down the street, Hasan moves briskly and with purpose under the shop awnings that line the pavement. He curses as he steps over the filth mounting in the gutter, including a putrid dead dog, and crosses to the other side. The British and French are having a pissing contest over who is in charge of Constantinople’s municipal services: the sanitation, the fire fighting and policing. Meanwhile the rubbish clogs the streets in fetid piles and waterways, and fires sweep through entire neighbourhoods of wooden homes until they burn themselves out. Half the population sees the Christians as saviours. But history shows that will only last as long as it takes for children to start dying from cholera or burning in their beds.