From then on, day after day, the architect and the elephant would inspect the site together, the sight of them making the labourers smile. Everyone worked hard. The air hanging over their heads was thick with sweat and dust. But Istanbul was thousands of mouths backbiting, slandering, never satisfied. Such awful things they said. That Sinan had no aptitude for finishing such a lofty task. That he was embezzling wood and marble to enlarge his own house. That, having been born and raised a Christian, he could not put together a holy mosque of such massive proportions – and, even if he did, the dome would collapse on his head.
Their lies harrowed Jahan’s soul. Time and again he felt like shouting at the top of his voice on to the rows of houses below, telling them to still their tongues. Every dawn he would wake up hoping the wind would disperse yesterday’s rumours; every night he went to sleep crushed under the weight of new accusations.
One afternoon, they had a visit from the Sultan. As soon as Jahan heard the hoofbeats, he knew the gossip had reached the sovereign’s ears and tainted his heart. The racket of mallets, saws, axes and hatchets came to a standstill. Into this silence, the Sultan rode like the wind. Pulling the reins of his horse, he glowered from high upon his stallion. He was attired in a modest robe of brown wool – gone were his kaftans of atlas in dazzling colours. With age and gout he had become more pious. Leaving off wine, giving up pleasures, he had ordered the remaining musical instruments in the palace to be burned. By a decision of the diwan, the taverns, houses of ill-repute and the recently opened coffee-houses had been closed down; all fermented drinks, including boza, which was always in vogue, were forbidden. He frightened Jahan, this new Suleiman.
Bowing, Sinan greeted him. ‘Your Highness, you have honoured us.’
‘Is it true what I’ve heard about you? Answer!’
‘Could my Lord tell me what he heard about this humble ant?’ Sinan said.
‘They say you’ve been wasting precious time with trims and frills – is that true?’
‘I can assure my Sultan that I spare no effort for the outside and the inside of his mosque. I intend to build with the finest craftsmanship and –’
‘Enough!’ the Sultan cut in. ‘I’ve no regard for decorations. Nor should you, if you’re wise. I order you to finish at once. Not a day’s delay! I want to see the dome, not the embellishments.’
Scolded in front of his workers and apprentices, Sinan paled. Yet when he spoke he sounded calm. ‘They are inseparable, the dome and the embellishments.’
‘Architect! Have you not heard what happened to the draughtsman of my forefather Mehmet Khan? He had the same name as you. An omen of things to come, you say?’
Sinan answered carefully, as though talking to a surly boy. ‘I’m aware of his sad fate, your Highness.’
‘Then you know what lies in wait for those who don’t keep their promises. Make sure you’re not one of them!’
When the Sultan left, they took up work again. Even so, it wasn’t the same. There was something new in the air, the smell of despair. Although they neither shirked nor slowed their work, they felt daunted. If they would not be able to please the Sultan, what was the use of keeping their noses to the grindstone? Why work so hard when that work went unappreciated?
During the next days Jahan waited for a chance to talk with Sinan. Only towards the end of the week was he able to approach the master. Surrounded by scrolls, his back hunched, he was drawing. Upon seeing him, Sinan gave a tired smile. ‘How are your lessons coming along?’
‘I hope I can make you proud, master.’
‘I know you will.’
‘Master, the other day the Sultan mentioned an architect. The one who had the same name as yours. What happened to him?’
‘Oh, Atik Sinan …’ He paused, as if that said it all.
Then he told the story. Atik Sinan had been the Chief Royal Architect of Sultan Fatih, the Conqueror of Constantinople. Diligent and dedicated, he had excelled at his craft. All had gone well until he started to build a mosque for the Sultan. Fatih wished his mosque to be the most majestic building ever raised. That included the Hagia Sophia. For this purpose he had brought over the tallest columns he could find in seven climes. When he heard that his Chief Royal Architect had shortened these columns without first asking him, he was furious. He accused the architect of deliberately obstructing his aims. Poor Atik Sinan tried to explain: as Istanbul was a city of earthquakes, he had to keep safety in mind, and had shortened the columns to make the edifice stronger. Fatih did not like this answer. He had the architect imprisoned in the worst dungeon, where his hands were chopped off. He was then beaten to death. This talented craftsman of the Ottoman land died alone and in pain in a dark prison cell by the sea. Whoever doubted this story could go and read it on his gravestone.
Jahan’s bottom lip trembled. Until then he had always believed it was thieves and miscreants who lived on the edge of danger. Now he saw that even honest artisans dangled from the thinnest of cotton threads. Should the sovereign get upset, he would have them sent to the gibbet. How could one work under such strain?
Sinan, watching him, put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Talent is a favour of the divine. To perfect it one must work hard. This is what we must do.’
‘But aren’t you afraid –’
‘My son, I dread the Sultan’s wrath as much as you do. Yet that is not why I toil. If there were no hope of reward and no fear of punishment, would I work less? I don’t believe so. I work to honour the divine gift. Every artisan and artist enters into a covenant with the divine. Have you made yours?’
Jahan made a sour face. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Let me tell you a secret,’ said Sinan. ‘Beneath every building we raise – it doesn’t matter whether it’s small or large – just imagine that below the foundations lies the centre of the universe. Then you will work with more care and love.’
Jahan pursed his lips. ‘I don’t understand what that means.’
‘You will,’ said Sinan. ‘Architecture is a conversation with God. And nowhere does He speak more loudly than at the centre.’
Jahan was intrigued. ‘Where is this place, master?’
Yet, before Sinan could answer, Snowy Gabriel came running in, his face ashen. ‘My Lord, we are doomed, the delivery –’
For weeks on end they had been waiting for a consignment of marble from Alexandria. Finally, the ship had arrived – but without the precious delivery. When questioned, the Captain explained they had been caught in a storm so awful they’d had to dump half the freight. Nobody believed him but nobody could prove otherwise either. Sinan had to make changes in his design, reducing the number of pillars.
In his palace Sultan Suleiman was getting more impatient with every passing day, as the mosque that was to bear his name fell further and further behind schedule. In the meantime, the splendid columns intended for the Suleimaniye Mosque lay at the bottom of the Red Sea, castles for fish.
‘Mahout! Where are you?’
Jahan ran out of the barn and held his breath at the sight of her. Dressed in her customary silks, dyed in rich blue, and, for once, alone, she gave him a look that was so tender he trembled slightly. ‘You have honoured us with your visit,’ he murmured as he knelt down.
‘I have news for the elephant,’ she said and paused for a moment. She enjoyed watching him squirm with curiosity. ‘The Austrian ambassador brought a painter to the court. An ambitious man, so I heard. They have asked my father’s permission to make the beast’s painting.’
‘What did our noble Sultan say?’
‘Well, he was going to say no, but after I spoke with him, he changed his mind. A painting would be nice, I persuaded him. In the courts of Frangistan kings and queens, they are accustomed to having their likenesses made. Even lowly merchants do so.’ Mihrimah added softly, ‘Ladies, too, imagine.’
Detecting a trace of longing in her voice, Jahan asked cautiously, ‘Would your Highness like to have her likeness painted some day?’
r /> ‘What a stupid question!’ she said. ‘You should well know that is impossible.’
Jahan apologized in panic, unsure whether he had crossed a boundary or discovered a piece of information he was not meant to possess. How he wished he could tell her that he had, in fact, carved every inch of her face into the infinite space within his mind, so that each time he closed his eyes he saw her, talking, frowning, laughing, her moonlike face in its many moods.
‘I am no painter but I can make a sketch of you, your Highness,’ Jahan said with a surge of courage. ‘No one will know.’
‘Are you trying to tell me you will shamelessly draw my face and expect me to be happy about it?’ she said.
From her tone Jahan could not fathom whether she was infuriated or mocking him. Yet the thought of them sharing a secret was so delicious he could not help but believe it to be true.
She took a step closer. ‘Why would I allow such insolence?’
‘Because, your Highness,’ said Jahan, his voice now trembling, ‘nobody sees you the way I do.’
He closed his eyes, waiting for the punishment that was sure to come. But Mihrimah remained strangely silent.
Busbecq, the Austrian ambassador, was an inquisitive man. Every time he was invited to the palace to discuss matters of state, he asked to be taken to the menagerie to see the animals afterwards. Such was his love for, and interest in, animals that he had filled the embassy grounds with as many of them as he could obtain. The locals called his garden Noah’s Ark. He kept flat-horned stags, weasels, sables, lynxes, eagles, monkeys, reptiles with odd names, deer, mules, a bear, a wolf and, to the horror of his Muslim servants, a pig. His favourite animals were tigers – and Chota.
It was Busbecq who introduced Melchior Lorichs to the Ottoman court. Since he had arrived in the Ottoman land, the painter had drawn Janissaries with muskets, camels with war drums, porters bent under their loads or ancient roadside ruins. He had two remaining wishes: to paint Ottoman women in their mantles and yashmaks; and to draw Sultan Suleiman’s elephant. Now that he had received permission from the Sultan to pursue his second wish, life changed for Jahan and Chota. Twice a week the mahout would bring the elephant to the ambassador’s residence.
Busbecq believed there were two blessings in life: books and friends. And that they should be possessed in inverse quantities: many books, but only a handful of friends. When he realized Jahan was not the ignorant tamer he had taken him for, he began to chat with him, one foreigner to another.
‘The Turks have a great respect for paper,’ said Busbecq. ‘If they see a scrap of it on the ground, they pick it up and put it somewhere high, so that it won’t be trodden on. But isn’t it odd that, while they revere paper, they don’t have an interest in books?’
‘My master does,’ said Jahan.
‘Yes, and we shall pray for his good health,’ said Busbecq. ‘Here’s another thing that I find odd: the Turks have no sense of chronology. That’s the first thing every foreigner needs to learn in this land. They muddle up historical events. Today succeeds tomorrow, and tomorrow might precede yesterday.’
From him Jahan heard a surprising thing. There was an elephant in his King’s court. And he was named Suleiman!
‘It’s not an insult,’ Busbecq assured. ‘A sign of respect, I’d say.’
As Jahan listened to Busbecq prattle on about animals and their ways, Melchior, wearing a verdigris robe and with a hard stare in his eyes, took Chota into the garden. Despite Jahan’s reservations he insisted on having the elephant pose under an acacia tree. He seemed a good man, and talented, yet a bit too full of himself, as artists tended to be. He had chosen his vocation over the objections of his parents, and his brows were drawn in a perpetual frown, as if somewhere in his mind he was still quarrelling with them. No sooner had he positioned Chota and placed his easel across from him than the elephant reached out and grabbed a branch.
‘Hey, stop!’ yelled Melchior. Seeing what little effect his words had on the elephant, he turned to the mahout. ‘Is the beast starved?’
‘He’s not. He’s had a hearty breakfast,’ Jahan said.
‘Then why is he eating the leaves?’
‘He’s an animal, sir.’
Melchior eyed Jahan coldly, trying to assess whether he was mocking him. ‘Next time before you come here, feed him better.’
Jahan did. Chota would eat double the amount of his daily morning ration; then, upon reaching the ambassador’s residence, he would devour the acacia leaves. After a few more attempts the artist agreed to alter the setting. This time Chota was posed outside against a snaky, sleepy street with rickety houses. Busbecq watched them from the window of his room upstairs. Relations between the two empires had swiftly deteriorated, and the ambassador was now kept under house arrest. While Melchior worked with Chota, Jahan kept the ambassador company, benefiting from his wide knowledge of flowers and herbs.
Two months later Melchior finished Chota’s portrait. To celebrate, Busbecq invited a number of guests. Pashas, viziers, emissaries. Jahan was surprised to see that, although the ambassador was still forbidden to go out, people had no hesitation in visiting him. The easel was covered with a thick, white cloth. It stood in a corner, waiting for its moment. Melchior was wearing a robe of blue velvet, beaming with pleasure. Jahan wondered, not for the first time, if all artists were like this. Thriving upon a drop of praise. Chota was at the end of the garden. The artist had insisted that the elephant should be part of the celebration. Jahan tethered him to an old oak tree to prevent him from stepping on someone.
Before long, the ambassador announced it was time to unveil the painting. A murmur rose as the guests drew near. Since it was not a portrait of a human being, even devout Muslims were curious to see it. The cloth was removed and underneath Jahan saw the most bizarre image.
Chota didn’t seem like Chota. His tusks were larger and sharper; he had a ferocious look on his face, as though ready to jump out of the frame and attack. The street and the houses and the sky were so real one could almost touch them. The painting exuded warmth. Impressed, everyone applauded. Busbecq rewarded the artist with a pouch. He also tipped Jahan, thanking him for his help in bringing about a work of art. Melchior, reeking of wine, embraced the boy as well.
An hour later, ready to leave, Jahan paused in front of the easel. That was when he saw, to his horror, that the top part of the painting was missing. Where there had been a fluffy cloud a while ago, there now was a large hole. Jahan turned to Chota, his heart hammering. The animal’s rope had snapped. Whatever doubts he may have had about Chota’s culpability disappeared when he noticed a smidgen of blue paint on one of his tusks. Wordlessly pulling Chota’s reins, Jahan left the ambassador’s residence. They closed the gate behind them, throwing themselves into the evening breeze. Jahan would never see Melchior again. He later heard that the painter had gone back to his own country and made quite a name for himself with his Oriental collection, though a painting of Sultan Suleiman’s white elephant was not among his works.
By the time Sinan and the apprentices were near the end of the Suleimaniye Mosque, the Sultan’s gout had become so severe that his legs, swollen and oozing from open sores, had to be swathed in gauze. He had on his hands the blood of those once dear to him – of his first Grand Vizier, Ibrahim; and of his eldest son, Mustafa. Both men had been the apple of his eye and yet were executed, one after the other, by order of the Sultan. Istanbul seethed with plots and conspiracies.
Jahan thought they would not hear from the Sultan for a while. How wrong he was. Despite his grief and his illness he kept sending messages, his tone terse, restless. Then, one day, he was at the site again, in pain but glowering. He glanced at the half-finished mosque as if it were invisible to him. On his horse he cantered towards Sinan.
‘Architect, too much time has gone by. I’m losing patience.’
Sinan said, ‘I assure your Majesty that I shall complete his mosque, God willing.’
‘How much more time do
you need?’
‘Two months, my Lord.’
The Sultan stared at the site, his eyes hard. ‘Two months it is! Not a day more. If the key is not delivered by then, we shall talk again.’
Once he had gone, the workers exchanged nervous glances. Nobody knew how they could possibly meet his demand in so short a time. Unrest boiled up like stew in a pot. Fretting that at the end of the two months the Sultan would punish them, the labourers started to talk about deserting.
One day, as things were getting increasingly out of hand, Sinan asked Jahan to help him into the howdah. He was going to give a speech – from atop the elephant.
‘Brothers! There was a bee flying around this morning. Did you notice it?’
No one answered.
‘I thought to myself, if I were that tiniest of creatures and if I could land on every man’s shoulder and listen to the sounds in his head, what would I hear?’
The crowd stirred somewhat.
‘I think I would hear worries. Some of you are uneasy. If we don’t finish the mosque in time, we’ll be in trouble, you say. Rest assured this won’t happen. If our Sultan is not pleased, none of you will be worse off. Other than me.’
‘How do we know our heads will not roll off next to yours?’ a worker asked without revealing his face. Instantly a murmur of assent rose.
‘Hear me out. This place was a bare field. With us the holy mosque rose, stone upon stone. Winter and summer, we slogged together. You saw one another more often than you saw your wives and children.’
Whispers rippled throughout the site.
‘People will come here after we are dead. They won’t know our names. But they will see what we’ve achieved. They shall remember us.’
‘So you say!’ someone shouted.
Sinan said haltingly, ‘If I fail, I fail alone. But if I succeed, we all succeed.’