Free The Abyssinian Proof by Jenny White

heads than keeping the walls dry. But the actors don’t write the play.”
    “I like to think we write our own scripts.”
    “It’s in our nature to try,” Malik responded good-naturedly.
    “It’s my observation,” Omar interjected, “that someone else is always trying to write it for you. Your wife, your mother-in-law, the government.”
    Malik laughed. “A man whose nature is untamed by his heart. You should be grateful you have a wife who puts up with you.”
    “Never marry a woman who was spoiled by her father,” Omar said to Kamil. “A peddler’s daughter loves beads.”
    “Do you have children?” Kamil asked.
    “By the will of Allah, it hasn’t happened.” Omar looked uncomfortable.
    Kamil felt sorry for the burly police chief. Having no children, especially sons, was considered a tragedy by many. It was said that a man without a son was a man whose hearth had gone out, and it occasioned pity and sometimes scorn, especially for the man’s wife, who was usually held responsible. Omar didn’t seem the sort to appreciate people’s pity.
    To change the subject, Kamil asked Malik, “Where do you teach your pupils?”
    “In the room behind the mosque. When I have female pupils, my housekeeper comes and knits. I’m hoping she’s learning something just by being in the same room. I took Saba on as a pupil because she has a passion for the old languages and learns them as readily as birds take to the air. Allah has placed in her a yeast that I’m privileged to help rise.”
    “Old languages?” Kamil asked. He had assumed Malik taught only the Quran.
    “Greek, Aramaic, the sacred languages.”
    Omar scoffed. “Half the neighborhood speaks Greek.”
    “Modern Greek is infected with the street. It sheds history like a dog flinging rain off its pelt.”
    “Those Greek dogs,” Omar joked. Malik laughed.
    Kamil watched them, envying their easy camaraderie. He had few close friends. His American friend Bernie had returned home the previous year, leaving a gap that Kamil found he was no longer able to fill as easily with work and books and orchids. He wandered into the central prayer room, its walls decorated with marble panels instead of mosaics. He let his eyes try to puzzle out the patterns in the marble. They looked like the desert, a sea, snowy mountains. Art with no human intercession, remote and beautiful.
    Malik followed him, seeming to sense his mood. Kamil was glad of his company. “Those revetments were once Greek columns. To get these continuous patterns, the Byzantines cut the columns into thin slices that unfolded like fans.” Malik illustrated with the palms of his hands.
    Kamil noticed Malik wore a gold signet ring on his right forefinger. It had a curious design engraved on it, a disk and crescent. The silver pin that clasped his cloak was also unusual, a geometric weave of lines. He wondered about the history of Malik’s family. Had there been Abyssinians in Istanbul during Byzantine times? Perhaps they had been desired as slaves even then.
    Malik stopped in the middle of the room and swept his hand toward the walls. “The Greeks built their empire on top of what came before them, Constantinople was built on Greek ruins, and Istanbul is built on top of Byzantium. Nothing is wasted. There’s a lesson there,” he smiled mildly at Kamil, “but I’m not wise enough to know what it is.”
    As they walked back to the corridor, Malik leaned closer and said in a low, urgent voice, “Tomorrow morning. Please do come to my house. I must speak with you.”
    Puzzled, Kamil assured him that he would.
    “Thank you, my friend.” Malik squeezed Kamil’s arm, then turned and walked away quickly.
    Omar was in conversation with a tall, thin man by the mosque entrance. As Kamil drew closer, he recognized the policeman Ali. The two spoke in low voices and then Ali left.
    “Our snitch in Charshamba has reported that there’s going to be a big smuggling operation late tonight,” Omar told