Free The Water Diviner by Andrew Anastasios

what has been said, but feels less than welcome.
    ‘Your room is upstairs and on the left. The break of fast is at eight o’clock in the morning. Would you like for her to bring you coffee or tea now?’ He nods to Ayshe.
    ‘Thank you, no,’ replies Connor. He picks up his case and heads for the stairs, one hand on the balustrade as he turns, recalling Orhan’s sales pitch on the docks. ‘Your son mentioned hot water and a bath.’
    Orhan’s jaw drops and his olive complexion blanches. As the father of three sons who were known to be liberal with the truth at times, Connor recognises the shamefaced look immediately. Not for the first time today Connor concedes that the kid has had the better of him, but he’s too exhausted to make a fuss. ‘No worries, it’ll be just like home, then.’
    Omer is not so forgiving. He cuffs the boy over the back of the head and snaps at the boy in English, apparently for Connor’s benefit, ‘It is shameful to lie. You are a spoilt mother’s boy!’ Orhan cringes in the corner of the lobby, tears welling in his eyes.
    Connor intervenes, almost a reflex. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Really. I probably misunderstood.’ Orhan may have led him a merry chase this morning, but he feels a strange camaraderie with the bright-eyed and persistent child.
    The Turkish man bows his head and holds his right hand to his chest. ‘Sincere apologies, Mr Connor. It is not our way. You are our guest here, and it is our duty to make you welcome.’ He points to Connor’s suitcase and cuffs Orhan once more, lest he missed the point. ‘Orhan will help you with your bag. It is his duty.’
    With his head bowed in shame, eyes fixed on his shuffling shoes, Orhan leads Connor up the stairs to the room. His chatter has dried up and the case the boy sprinted with through the streets as if it were as light as a feather now suddenly seems laden with bricks. They approach Room 6 and Orhan slides the key into the lock.
    ‘This your room.’
    Connor takes his suitcase from the boy and pushes his way into a sparsely furnished room. He fishes a coin out of his pocket and presses it into Orhan’s hand. The remorseful boy tries to hand it back but Connor nods and smiles.
    ‘You seem to know where everything is around here,’ says Connor. ‘Tomorrow, can you take me to the War Office? I will pay you.’
    Orhan’s face breaks into a broad grin and his hooded eyes reclaim their spark. ‘Yes you will.’
    Connor watches Orhan race back along the hall and disappear down the stairs, three at a time. He wonders if you are still a father when you have no sons left.

    Ayshe swings a wicker carpet beater in a fury. Decades of accumulated dirt explode in smoky clouds from the weathered Baluch carpet, which is suspended over a clothesline in the hotel courtyard. She whacks at it with impotent rage, tears of frustration cutting runnels through the dust that has settled on her cheeks. Finally she steps back from the rug, her anger beginning to abate.
    She stands in what remains of a magnificent garden surrounded by an ageless stone wall. When this building was her childhood home Ayshe would help the gardener, Ali the Bent, weed the beds and plant seeds and bulbs that erupted in a riot of colour long after she had forgotten them. Tulips, hyacinths, narcissus, irises. It was in this garden that she first learned that miracles seldom happen without someone getting their hands dirty.
    The courtyard has gone to seed, in every way. Small, tenacious tufts of grass appear between the flagstones, and tree roots growing beneath the paving lift the stones erratically. A build-up in its pipes means that the fountain that once spurted and gurgled merrily during hot, dusty summers has slowed to a trickle and does little more than stain its marble basin with streaks of rust. Wicker chairs, stacked in a far corner, quietly unravel.
    Ayshe has fond memories of the garden in its prime, small tables set neatly with lace-edged napkins and