Kamil.
“This is my niece, Saba,” Malik explained. “She’s one of my best pupils. Saba, this is Kamil Pasha, magistrate of Lower Beyoglu,” Malik told her in a meaningful tone, then leaned over and said something to her that Kamil didn’t catch. There were undertones in their exchange that he found vaguely disquieting, and he had the feeling that this meeting had been prearranged.
Saba looked up at him and stepped closer. “My uncle has told me about you, Kamil Pasha.” Her voice had the melodious resonance of a clarinet, sweet and tenacious.
Kamil placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head in greeting. “Selam aleikum, peace be upon you.”
“Aleikum selam, upon you be peace, pasha. I’m glad to finally have the honor of meeting you.” Her eyes tilted slightly upward. Kamil fancied that they flashed with interest before she lowered them modestly.
“We’d be honored if you would visit our humble home, Kamil Pasha,” she told him, then took her leave.
They watched the tiny green figure move off down the street and disappear around the fountain.
“A remarkable young woman,” Malik said to no one in particular.
Kamil was tempted to take this as an invitation to ask about her, but decided it would be indiscreet.
“My family lives over in Sunken Village,” Malik said.
“Omar was telling me the village is mostly Habesh.”
“There are about forty families. We make a living selling produce from our gardens.”
“And smuggling,” Omar interjected.
Malik looked at him reprovingly. “That’s just gossip.”
“Come on, Malik. Everyone knows that. I hear your sister, Balkis, is quite well-off. There’s no way she got rich selling vegetables.”
Malik frowned. “Her husband passed away and left her well cared for. Why do you always kick over rocks looking for scorpions? Sometimes a rock is just a rock and covers nothing but plain soil.”
“The soil in this part of town is rich with manure,” Omar retorted.
Kamil wondered at the relationship between the mild old man and the gruff police chief. They quarreled like an old married couple.
“I’m impressed by how much you know about what goes on in this area,” he told Omar.
“The coffeehouse,” Omar said with a grin. “Everybody knows everybody. All you need is an ear and a strong stomach. But enough socializing. If we don’t get this case solved by lunchtime, I’ll starve.”
Kamil turned to Malik. “You asked to see me. Is it about the theft?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you with it,” Malik answered, pressing Kamil’s hand between his own. It was an unremarkable statement, but Kamil saw the urgency in his friend’s eyes.
“On the contrary,” Kamil responded, “an opportunity to meet up with an old friend is precious. And I hear there was a witness. There’ve been thefts from the Patriarchate, the Fatih Mosque, and other places in the area. One thief could lead us to others, especially the dealers they sell to.”
Malik looked relieved. “I’ll do whatever I can to assist. What else can I tell you?”
“You’ve heard the description of the thief?”
“Omar told me,” Malik replied. “Long hair. Could it have been a woman?”
Kamil nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. Do you have the key to the storeroom?”
“It’s not locked. The keys to those old doors are long gone. The mosque was restored about ten years ago and we asked the Ministry of Pious Foundations to replace the doors, but they didn’t see fit to do so. Only the outer door can be locked.”
“How many keys are there?” Kamil remembered that the baker’s apprentice had seen the thief bend over the door as if locking it.
“Just one. Both the imam and I use it, so we keep it in a room behind the mosque to which we both have a key.”
Two men were arguing in the square. A group of men surrounded them and began to take sides. There was shouting and a scuffle.
Malik frowned in their direction. “It’s
“This is my niece, Saba,” Malik explained. “She’s one of my best pupils. Saba, this is Kamil Pasha, magistrate of Lower Beyoglu,” Malik told her in a meaningful tone, then leaned over and said something to her that Kamil didn’t catch. There were undertones in their exchange that he found vaguely disquieting, and he had the feeling that this meeting had been prearranged.
Saba looked up at him and stepped closer. “My uncle has told me about you, Kamil Pasha.” Her voice had the melodious resonance of a clarinet, sweet and tenacious.
Kamil placed his hand over his heart and bowed his head in greeting. “Selam aleikum, peace be upon you.”
“Aleikum selam, upon you be peace, pasha. I’m glad to finally have the honor of meeting you.” Her eyes tilted slightly upward. Kamil fancied that they flashed with interest before she lowered them modestly.
“We’d be honored if you would visit our humble home, Kamil Pasha,” she told him, then took her leave.
They watched the tiny green figure move off down the street and disappear around the fountain.
“A remarkable young woman,” Malik said to no one in particular.
Kamil was tempted to take this as an invitation to ask about her, but decided it would be indiscreet.
“My family lives over in Sunken Village,” Malik said.
“Omar was telling me the village is mostly Habesh.”
“There are about forty families. We make a living selling produce from our gardens.”
“And smuggling,” Omar interjected.
Malik looked at him reprovingly. “That’s just gossip.”
“Come on, Malik. Everyone knows that. I hear your sister, Balkis, is quite well-off. There’s no way she got rich selling vegetables.”
Malik frowned. “Her husband passed away and left her well cared for. Why do you always kick over rocks looking for scorpions? Sometimes a rock is just a rock and covers nothing but plain soil.”
“The soil in this part of town is rich with manure,” Omar retorted.
Kamil wondered at the relationship between the mild old man and the gruff police chief. They quarreled like an old married couple.
“I’m impressed by how much you know about what goes on in this area,” he told Omar.
“The coffeehouse,” Omar said with a grin. “Everybody knows everybody. All you need is an ear and a strong stomach. But enough socializing. If we don’t get this case solved by lunchtime, I’ll starve.”
Kamil turned to Malik. “You asked to see me. Is it about the theft?”
“I’m sorry to trouble you with it,” Malik answered, pressing Kamil’s hand between his own. It was an unremarkable statement, but Kamil saw the urgency in his friend’s eyes.
“On the contrary,” Kamil responded, “an opportunity to meet up with an old friend is precious. And I hear there was a witness. There’ve been thefts from the Patriarchate, the Fatih Mosque, and other places in the area. One thief could lead us to others, especially the dealers they sell to.”
Malik looked relieved. “I’ll do whatever I can to assist. What else can I tell you?”
“You’ve heard the description of the thief?”
“Omar told me,” Malik replied. “Long hair. Could it have been a woman?”
Kamil nodded thoughtfully. “I hadn’t considered that possibility. Do you have the key to the storeroom?”
“It’s not locked. The keys to those old doors are long gone. The mosque was restored about ten years ago and we asked the Ministry of Pious Foundations to replace the doors, but they didn’t see fit to do so. Only the outer door can be locked.”
“How many keys are there?” Kamil remembered that the baker’s apprentice had seen the thief bend over the door as if locking it.
“Just one. Both the imam and I use it, so we keep it in a room behind the mosque to which we both have a key.”
Two men were arguing in the square. A group of men surrounded them and began to take sides. There was shouting and a scuffle.
Malik frowned in their direction. “It’s
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