Free The Water Diviner by Andrew Anastasios Page B

‘Yes. Three.’ He retreats to the window, suddenly uncomfortable with Ayshe, for being Turkish, a woman, a mother, beautiful, prying, defiant – and for being in his room.
    ‘What’s that noise?’ he asks as the call to prayer trails off.
    ‘This is your first time in Constantinople, Mr Connor?’ she asks, rhetorically.
    ‘What are they selling?’ he asks, to remove any doubt.
    ‘God,’ she quips. ‘It’s a call to prayer.’
    ‘The bathroom is down the hall when you want to bathe.’ She casts an eye over the books and papers on the bed and spots the ornately bound blue volume of
The Arabian Nights
.
    ‘Your guide book is out of date, I’m afraid,’ she says dryly.
    ‘I’m not here to sightsee.’
    An awkward silence descends, which Ayshe breaks by beating a hasty retreat from the room. As she leaves, she speaks without glancing up at him. ‘You should make time for the Blue Mosque at least. Even in my “wretched city” it is a beautiful place to find God.’
    He may well be in desperate need of divine intervention, but Connor has neither the time nor the inclination to seek God on these shores.
    ‘I didn’t come for Him either,’ Connor grunts. ‘I am on my way to Gallipoli.’
    Ayshe stops in the doorway, her almond-shaped eyes narrowing. Just the sound of the word seems to harden her.
    ‘You mean Çanakkale, Mr Connor. We call it Çanakkale. There is nothing there but ghosts.’ She composes herself and leaves, calling over her shoulder, ‘My son cannot help you tomorrow. I need him here.’
    Connor watches Ayshe stride towards the stairwell, holding her head aloft and arms swinging. As he closes the door, he is uncomfortable, confused by the Turkish woman’s coolness and undisguised disdain. If he needs to stay in Constantinople for any length of time he might have to look for another hotel.
    Connor removes his shirt and singlet and dips his cupped palms into the water basin. The steam rises up and wets his cheeks. He realises it has been weeks since he has had hot water to wash in, and relishes the moment. He brings his hands up slowly and feels the wave of heat on his eyelids and lips. He rubs his forehead all the way to the hairline, the sides of his nose, the inside of his ears and the back of his neck. To his surprise he finds red grit from home still lodged in places that he would swear were clean.
I’ll always wear the mark of where I come from, ingrained, no escaping it
.
    Long after the water in the basin has turned cold, a paste of olive oil soapsuds and dirt clinging to the sides, Connor awakes with a start. He has fallen asleep face down on his map, allowing every contour to project itself on his mind. The evening prayer call, shriller and more urgent this time, exhumes him from a deep slumber and discombobulates him. Where is he? What is the time? Where are they, where are his sons?
    The farmer gathers himself on the side of his bed as his mind slowly finds its way through the fog of lost sleep, along an outback rail line, a turbulent sea and through the labyrinth of Constantinople. A glance out the window tells him the city is lurching towards the end of the day, like a runner chesting the tape. The afternoon has sprinted by.
    Connor sniffs and confirms he needs a bath. He needs to be at his best tomorrow. He gathers his towel and his flat leather toiletries bag, and steps into the hall, careful to lock his door behind him.
You never know with these Arabs
.
    He makes his way along the low-lit corridor, looking for a bathroom sign. He rounds a corner and sees a distinguished Turkish gentleman sitting on a bench beside a closed door, several bathroom towels stacked beside him. The older man nods and smiles at Connor, politely letting the Australian know he must wait his turn. Connor returns the nod and sits, ramrod rigid with his towel on his lap. He doesn’t have to wait long before the door handle rattles from inside the room and a sheepish-looking Turk appears. The man