Nightmares and Concentrated Envy

Big-sis and Kalahili have had little sleep. They have also been having nightmares simultaneously. The night the Boy takes Pixi home from hospital and orders her to start packing, Big-sis dreams of none other than the blue-eyed Djinn with the black robes. Like Pixi, her dream also told her she'd been chosen by him. And again like Pixi, she also mistook him to be a very wise, very spiritual man (which was in no way a deception but simply something misread by the unfamiliar.) Consequently, she was rather chuffed, until her underlying animal instincts, picked up on his true intents and started ringing the alarm bells.

At the same time Kalahili dreamt of sleeping. He dreamt he was lying with his wife in their giant four-poster bed with its Thai wood-carving wall mount etc. just as he was doing in real life, at that very moment. He then dreamt that he woke from this sleep to the sensation of someone lying in-between his wife and himself.  It was a small someone, child sized, a bit skinny, and with very, very long hair. Startled, Kalahili acted to catch the thing, but it jumped out of their bed and scuttled away.

He and Big-Sis woke up simultaneously. Soaked in sweat and sharing a mutual horror, they stared at each other in the dark with massive eyes. After that, there wasn’t much of rest or sleep left. The dreams shook acutely and had them both barely functioning on tenterhooks all day. Thankfully it was a Thursday.

Now, both are buried into the soft folds of the L-shaped living room sofa set, near-comatose in front of their 12inch HD screen. Their watching Gladiator, which looks like a cheap, straight-to-DVD release, because it is not HD and so the clarity only serves to highlight bad skin and unconvincing props. Both are hungry, but neither has the energy to get up and order in takeaway.

Meanwhile, the boy and Pixi are crammed together in the front passenger seat of a dingy taxi-bus at Abu-Dhabi bus station. They'd waited 15minutes for it to fill up, while they watched the bus-station goings on which transpired around them. Now the driver is collecting the fare, and there are arms all over the place, passing change back and forth.

The driver, a Pakistani uncle in Kurta and a long beard, seems peeved. Pixi doesn't understand him, but she puts together the words 'kullu' and 'mia' as well as the rhetorical question in the tone of his voice to deduce that he's saying ‘how am I meant to give you all change when everyone's giving me hundreds?!' Eventually the change issue gets resolved and they set off along the Salaam St highway, on the hour long drive up to Dubai.

The two share a heavy silence for much of the journey. The Boy, deep in dark, worrisome thoughts about Pixi's encounter and all that it means. And Pixi, bearing the working-weeks exhaustion, and the relaxation which has come to her with the relief of having handed in her resignation. Editor had not been amused, but he understood her reasons. He’d felt the growing office-toxicity himself, and had worked long enough at Time Out Abu Dhabi to know what a thankless job it is. Once you get over all the fun and perks.

Eventually, when he thinks she’s fallen asleep, the Boy reaches out and gently takes Pixi’s hand. It pains him to feel how frail it is. And he boils with anger at himself and everything and everyone which has lead to this moment where he’s cramped in a half-seat between the Pakistani uncle and Pixi, feeling absolutely helpless.

By the time the two get to Dubai, disembark on the rumbling highway that is Sheikh Zayed road, cross the sand-pit construction site under the JLT metro station, cross over to the Marina side via the overpass, weather the 10 minute walk in the sticky UAE summer heat, and then eventually ring the bell at 503 Westside Marina, the sun has already called it a day. Kalahili answers the door, and his initial surprise at seeing Pixi instead of the water delivery guy, is quickly replaced by irritation over seeing some random guy with her.

“Marti,” he yells in the direction of the bedroom as Pixi and the boy remove their shoes in the hallway. “Put your hijab on.”

 “Who is it?” Big-sis emerges, wrapping her head-scarf. “Oh hello.” She too is surprised to see Pixi and then the Boy, but unlike Kalahili she knows who he is. “You’re back!” she states. “And you’ve…” Big-sis struggles to find a word that’s appropriate to use in front of her husband without getting him more ruffled than he’s already displaying signs of being, “grown tall.” Is what she settles for, catching Pixi’s eye for an instant to smile in a way that makes the Boy uncomfortable and tips Kalahili’s dominoes.

“Waleik! I kill you!” he booms, “and you,” he points a furious finger at Pixi. “Who’s this?!”

“He’s her childhood friend. He’s practically family.”

“He’s my half Djinn Boy.”

“He’s on our side,” Pixi and Big-Sis say simultaneaously, respectively.

“Assalamu alaikum,” the Boy steps forward. “Bro, I’ve known Pixi and your family for a very long time. I don’t mean to intrude-”

“Waleik!” Kalahili cuts him off. “Who’s half Djinn? You’re half Djinn?” he quips at the boy.

“Yes,” the boy gulps.

“I kill you!” Kalahili turns the angry finger at him this time. “Which half is Djinn?”

“The better half, I promise,” says the Boy. Kalahili eyes him and then decides he’s telling the truth.

“Good. I don’t kill you then. What do you want?”

“Pixi…no, you’re family… hell, the whole world, is in danger.”

“And?”

“I’ve failed at protecting Pixi too many times. I don’t want to fail again.”

“Oi, who needs protecting? I’m fine,” Pixi butts in.

“Silence woman,” the boy rumbles ominously. “Don’t get me angry. You’ve seen what I turn into when I get angry.”

“What does he turn into?” this time Big-sis butts in, with intrigued curiosity.

“Actually I was unconscious when that happened, but Zaru said she saw the whole thing, and she said you were positively grotesque.”

“An accurate description on Zaru’s part. How is she, by the way?”

“She’s cool. Her and Miri are planning to visit in a month’s time. But that was before I resigned.”

"They’ll need to change their plans then. I haven't met Miri, have I?"

“No-”

“Waleik!” Kalahili interrupts. “I kill you all, stop going off topic!”

“Yeah, what’s this about you resigning?” asks Big-sis.

“We should sit down. This could take a while.” Pixi draws everyone’s attention to the fact that they’ve all been standing at the entrance for a good twenty minutes now.

“I get my bag, we go.” Big-sis goes back to the bedroom.

“Go where? We just go here,” Pixi calls out after her. She’s sticky and all desk-work tension-knotted. She wants a shower.

“Out. There’s no food in the house and we’re hungry,” her sister calls back.

“By the way,” Pixi turns to Kalahili. “Bro, has Big-Sis felt anything strange? Tummy pains? Weird dreams?”

“Did you say weird dreams?” Big-Sis comes back with her fake LV in tow. The real one she saves for work and special outings.

"His name is Azazeal," the boy says, twirling the steak knife they've just won at Butcher Shop & Grill, because Kalahili finished a giant slab of sirloin.

"Eh?!" says Pixi through a mouthful of roast potato that's been a bulge in her right cheek for way too long for it to still taste good. It’s like she's so unenthusiastic about her food, she keeps forgetting to swallow. Depression might have something to do with it. Eating out at fine-dining joints for a living might also.

"Wasn't that the Devil pre-divine-deportation?" Asks Big-sis.

"Old boy aint got a copyright on the name. There's been loads of Azazeals since him. This one's Azazeal MDXVII."

"Sounds like a corporate tycoon," says  Kalahili.

"Sounds like a human genome code," says Big-sis.

"Sounds like a razor blade," says Pixi, finally swallowing her cheek-bulge.

"In any case, he means business," the boy drains the bottle of San Pelegrino into his glass and downs it. Kalahili tries to catch a waiter's attention to order another. "Compared to Azazeal, Qiran was small-fry."

"How small?"

"Like a newt."

"What's a newt?" says Kalahili and Big-Sis starts Googling for the Arabic equivalent on her blackberry. The Boy tries to indicate the size of the thing with his fingers but then gives up and attempts to explain. "If Qiran was village elder of some African tribe of forty huts, Azazeal would be secretary of state of the United States of America."

"Errrrrr," Pixi is none the wiser for this. She’s politically and numerologically challenged.

"Who's Qiran?" asks Kalahili, and Big-Sis goes to Google.

"He's my uncle. Late."

"He's coming?" asks Big-sis.

"No he's dead," says Pixi.

"Oh, I'm very sorry," says Big-Sis to the Boy.

"Don't be. I killed him," the Boy says nonchalantly through a mouthful of spicy sausage, and she and Kalahili look mortified. "He was Ifrit."

"Masha-Allah," says Kalahili, a little surprised, a little impressed but mostly like he’s missed the first instalment of a trilogy.

"So who is he exactly, this Azazeal MDXVII?" Big-sis asks.

"He's the most junior among the seventeen Dai-tengu."

"Dai-what-what?"

"The great Tengu, they're like demonic high-priests," is his response, and it strikes a familiar cord in Pixi’s mind, which is like a bric-brack shop of useless or archaic facts in the true Wilde-inian sense of the word.

"You mean Tengu, as in the Japanese Tengu?" she asks.

"Aye."

"Tengu is an evil spirit in Japanese folklore," Pixi explains to big-Sis and Kalahili. "They must basically be Ifrit Djinn."

"They're THE ifrit Djinn," corrects the boy, "Azazeal holds sway over the Higo province. He’s known to the locals of Higo, as Ajari." The San Pelegrino arrives.

"So what do Japanese Djinn have to do with us?" asks Kalahili

"They’re no more Japanese Djinn than I am British. They’re just Djinn in Japan. There have been many wars to curb the rebellions of my kind. The last great war forced us to flee to the Eastern Islands. That's where they built their strongholds. That's where they thrived. And over time, man made many things of them; spirits, demons, gods."

"Astagfirullah," mutters Kalahili.

“So what does he want?” Asks Big-Sis.

“I don’t know,” the Boy scratches his head, dishevelling his mousy hair. “He commands a leviathan of an army, and has over ten like Qiran at his beck and call. It doesn’t make sense to me why he’d be appearing in people’s dreams."

"ShiKt," Pixi hangs her head in despair. "We're doomed whatever way you look at it. Might as well just lay down and die now."

"Shuddup Pixi!" Big-sis snaps. "No one's dying!"

“What she said,” the Boy quips, grabbing Pixi’s fork from her hand. He’s had enough of watching her push food about her plate for 48 minutes straight. Startled, Pixi looks up at him. He meets her look, holds it, and then brings the fork down on a by-standing potato rather threateningly. It makes Pixi flinch and then she flinches again when he holds it under her nose. Taken aback she sits there a little cluelessly. "Eat, woman!" He orders and turns to Big-sis and Kalahili who have been interrupted in their own conversation and, like Pixi, are also looking at him. "She's wasting," he offers.

"Yeah, I tend to do that." Pixi takes the fork from the boy and the potato into her mouth. "haven't disappeared yet," she adds with a new bulge in her cheek.

"Shuddup," the boy quips, grabbing her fork again, stabbing a second potato and pointing it at her.

"Yeah, you tell her," says Big-sis, who's savoring the satisfaction of watching someone other than herself scold Pixi for wasting. “So any way,” she tries to guide the conversation back to the matter at hand. “What do we have to do?”

“We have to be on our guard,” the Boy gives Pixi’s fork back to her, confident that she will now be able to use it herself. “And I will alert my people. Something is amok. We’ll soon find out what. ” It doesn’t escape Pixi’s attention that the Boy mentions nothing about ‘harvesting’ to Big-Sis and Kalahili. For this she is thankful, because it means their nightly encounter with Azazeal was not grave enough to necessitate alerting them to it. She is also equally troubled though, because it means hers was grave enough for the Boy to decide to conceal it from her family.

Pixi sees out her notice period with newfound purpose. That of seeing out her notice period. Upping sticks is what they call it. And it involves finding new homes for her limited Ikea furniture; Tying up loose ends at work; Neatly packaging her responsibilities with detailed instructions in email format; Passing on contacts; dishing out business cards, and saying long drawn-out goodbyes. Over billowing cigarettes and Arabic dubbed Turkish soaps in the evening, Tunisian-Flatmate tells Pixi she’ll miss her. Kinsi, The only other friend Pixi made in Abu Dhabi, tells her the same over Shiesha at One to One Hotel’s sad fish restaurant, which had once suffered a ruthless review at Pixi’s pen. Her work colleagues ditto the sentiment but don’t really mean it, which is fine because the feeling is mutual.

During this month the Boy also keeps busy, which involves him disappearing and reappearing rather frequently. He requests assistance from his clan to send out scouts and up surveillance on the borders. He calls in favours and asks for star-logs dating back from two years prior to be examined for possible breach patterns or significant incidents. He sets about reading universal signs, and the behaviour of certain heavenly bodies particularly grabs his interest. Namely, Venus and Jupiter have taken to aligning with the moon for several nights straight.

When he’s not scrutinising the night sky, the Boy turns his scrutiny to Pixi. He’s subtle, so she mistakenly suspects on occasion that he’s checking her out. But he’s also very thorough. Eventually, and during her final week in Abu Dhabi, the Boy’s conclusive suspicions grow to un-ignorable proportions. He pops the question.

At the time, Pixi is systematically packing. Her red suitcase looks like a bento-box, with all her clothes and possessions arranged into neat little sections inside it. Pixi notices the ruminating way the Boy looks at her handiwork and quips, "Ok, so I don't colour coordinate my underwear anymore, but there's nothing wrong with being neat. I don't like losing things." Her use of the word 'neat' is a gross understatement of course but the Boy doesn't point this out. Instead he says, "When was the last time you lost something?"

"I lost a sock the other day. It didn't come back out with my washing. But then it came out with my Tunisian-flatmate's. That machine is rhubarb!"

"No, I mean, really lost something. You know, without explanation. And so you never found it again."

"Oh that's easy," Pixi's closet OCD pokes out its nerdy head. "My house keys and my prayer beads disappeared last year. I turned the whole flat inside out before the move, but they never materialised. I'm still gutted about the key-chain. Little-Sis had given it to me. And the prayer beads were from Damascus."

"Was this before or after you and 夢幻 broke up?" the Boy's mention of 夢幻 dampens Pixi's mood.

"What's he got to do with anything?"

"Just answer the question."

"Before," says Pixi, trying not to remember any other details about the dark times which followed, and everything started going to shiKt. How their relationship had expired almost overnight. How a coldness had descended over their home. How words became few and forthcoming. How their meeting gazes became clouded. How 夢幻 started coming home later from the restaurant where he worked, and Pixi couldn't greet him by burying her nose into his top, taking a deep, satiating breath of relief and declaring 'yummy!' because  he smelled of tempura.

After he left, misfortune followed ugly misfortune at near-comic frequency. By the end of it all, the only thing missing from Pixi’s plethora of misfortunes was a car accident that would leave her blind and busking at tube stations.

"And when did you last communicate with Glorious?" asks the Boy.

"What's he got to do with anything?" Pixi says again, her annoyance growing.

"Nothing, I hope," is the obscure response.

 That evening, the Boy pulls his final disappearing act. While he’s away investigating the possibility of black-magic, Pixi is taking a detour home from work. She follows a random route that turns into some residential streets, passing villas which remind her of growing up in Saudi Arabia. The evening is warm and it carries the scent of night blooming flowers on its windless refrains. Pixi spies running children, and Indian men holding hands, and drinking-water fountains posted outside homes as a charitable gesture for passersby on a hot day. Thus she says her goodbyes to this strange city. And then she hears a cat calling from across the empty street. It calls to Pixi in particular, as if it'd been waiting for her, and was complaining that she's late.

Pixi halts under a buzzing street lamp, and waits as the cat crosses over very vocally. Pixi notices that the cat is a Mrs cat, and furthermore, that she is with kitten. She reaches into her shopping bag for the film wrapped polystyrene tray of smoked turkey salami. Mrs cat complains impatiently as Pixi struggles to unwrap the cling film and extract a slice of turkey. 'ok, ok, it's coming,' she says to Mrs cat, and then finally crouches to present her with a slice. Mrs cat takes it and traipses off, her bulging kitten-bump in tow.

Pixi thinks of Sufi-cat in Turkey with Mum and Little-Sis. She thinks about Big-sis and Kalahili in Dubai, about Dad in London, and about how life scatters families to the winds. Then she considers her encounter with Mrs cat. It dawns on her that there might be a kind of script for them all, a plot and stage cues even, determining the routes they'll walk, the lines they'll talk, the people and cats they'll cross paths with. It makes her feel safe. As if there's a safety net.

When finally the evening heat gets too much for walking, Pixi catches a cab. When she gets in, she finds that Tunisian-Flatmate is out, and so settles for a lonely dinner propped up in her bed, the TV filling the room with noise. She has a cigarette, and then reads. But her mind keeps wandering off away from the narrative, and she has to keep pausing to go after and fetch it back. Eventually the effort makes her tired, and Pixi falls asleep with the side lamp on and face buried in her book.

At three am she’s wakes with a start and an imprint of a page on her left cheek.

"How’zzatwhywho? " she exclaims.

"Shhhhhh!" the boy shushes angrily as he climbs onto the bed. "Tunisian-Flatmate’s back. You’re gonna wake her!" He plumps up the pillow next to hers as Pixi sits there a while, waiting for her faculties to return. He lies on his back and closing his eyes, breathes a deep sigh.

"Eh, what’s this?"

"What does it look like?"

"Dude, you’re not sleeping in my bed."

"I’m not in your bed, I’m on your bed. And I’m not sleeping,” the Boy turns over onto his side, facing Pixi, and hugs his pillow. “I’m just resting my eye-lids while I keep watch over you."

“I don’t need you keeping watch,” Pixi pushes him “Now get out!” Caught off-guard he falls off the side.

“Oww!” The Boy sits up and glares at her. “Fine! –if that’s how you treat a guy that’s just returned from waging most valorous combat in your name?” He grabs the pillow, and makes himself comfortable across the sheepskin on the floor.

“What are you spewing?” Pixi was about to turn out the night-lamp but has a second thought. When she gets no response, she inches to the other end of the bed and peers over its edge. Eyes closed, the Boy is lying with one arm under his head. His breathing isn’t steady enough for him to be asleep already, which means he’s ignoring her. “Hey,” she tries again. “What does that mean?”

“It means you so need me keeping watch, because you’re utterly useless at protecting yourself and particularly vulnerable at present.”

“You met Azazeal?”

“Sure. We had a drink. Played some pool.”

“Eh?!” Pixi ‘eh’s and the Boy opens his eyes to behold at her in all her spectacular idiocy.

“Azazeal? Really?” he cocks an eyebrow.

“Then who?”

“The guy who was responsible for you being found.”

“Found? Since when was I lost?”

“Since Jordan. Since Al-Aqazaam put a veil over you and your family, coz after what happened to Qiraan there’d be questions, and a whole lot of Ifrit wanting to know the full story.”

 “But I never killed Qiraan.”

“Of course not. I did. But I was able to do it because of you.”

“Ok.” Pixi sits up pensively and crosses her legs. “So we were safe. For a while. But now we’re not?”

“No. You’re not.”

“Why? How?”

“Concentrated envy.”

“What like the black-eye?”

“Yes. Combine it with someone with the capacity to do black-magic, and you don’t just have misfortune befalling you.”

“Get out.”

“You’ve never read The Tale of Genji?”

“No, I believe in all that, it’s just….who would…why?”

“When was the last time you communicated with Glorious?” The Boy sits up, and looks Pixi square in the face. She’s flummoxed.

“That’s impossible.” Pixi goes pale. “He was pissed at me but…he’d never…”

“Never what? Want to hurt you?” The Boy is sorry that this news is distressing her so, but he remains cold-blooded. He needs to drive it home so she won’t forget it. “Pride, bitterness and stupidity –it’s the recipe for disaster. Oh he wanted to hurt you alright, though he didn’t realise the breadth and extent of what he was dealing with. In any case it’s too late now.” The Boy pulls off his t-shirt so Pixi has to look away, and lies back down. “Could you get the light please, I want to sleep.”  

The Second Sultan and the Same Secret

The Year is 1905, and can be characterised in Turkish history as the culmination of generally ridiculous times. In these ridiculous times, foreign interests came to court with ridiculous propositions which they offered with much ridiculous smugness. Gone were the days when Europe shook in her boots at the mention of the Turk. Sultan Abdulhamid Han II had inherited an empire which was sick, creaking under heavy debts and besieged on all sides by rebellions. And the Rebellions were spurred on by the same foreign powers that came knocking at his door with self-interested solutions to the problems they stoked like leering pyromaniacs.

After the Turko-Russian war, England had leased out Cyprus, because this was apparently a fitting payment for having fought the Turkish corner at the Congress of Berlin. It had served only to whet their appetite. Four years later they marched their troops into Egypt and Sudan on the pretence of restoring order. Abdulhamid knew what they were up to. They'd so far done an excellent job sowing seeds of conflict among the simple and generally joyful Greek Cypriots and Turkish Cypriots who had previously been living peacefully together for centuries, with minor brawls over goat thievery. Things were looking dark for the dear-fledgling nation.

Meanwhile, Eastern Europe was already lost to him, and the Russians would soon be showing the newly independent states they'd liberated a good time. But the Middle East, a region predominantly Muslim, that's what hurt the most. His struggles to salvage what he could were near futile, but struggle he did.

This particular afternoon in 1905, Abdulhamid Han II was struggling yet again. The current quandary concerned property sales in Palestine. And it was relevant among all the other political palaver he had to deal with because of a certain man named Theodore Herzl.

Several years ago this man had come to Istanbul with an offer to pay a substantial sum of the Ottoman debt in exchange for Palestine. He’d communicated his offer via the Austrian, Philip Michel Newlinsky. At the time, Abdulhamid Han had stated his sentiments with heartfelt eloquence. They’d gone something like this:

“If Mr. Herzl is as much your friend as you are mine, then advise him not to take another step in this matter. I cannot sell even a foot of land, for it does not belong to me, but to my people. My people have won this empire by fighting for it with their blood. They have fertilized it with their blood. And we will again cover it with our blood before we allow it to be wrested away from us. Let the Jews save their billions. When my Empire is partitioned, they may get Palestine for nothing. But only our corpse can be divided. I will not agree to vivisection.”

Abdulhamid’s response was relayed to Herzl, who had experienced a fleeting pang over the tragic beauty of the Sultan’s fatalism. And then he’d gone back to the drawing board to hatch plan B. Everything from bribery, to threats, to various forms of leverage concerning various political figures ensued. But with every attempt, Herzl and his lot hit a brick wall. Eventually, and years later, the man himself was granted an audience with the Sultan to broach the topic one more time.

"We want to give the Jews a home," he'd said with tear-jerking dramatization. Abdulhamid Han didn’t have to take a discerning look at Herzl to know that his interests had nothing to do with the plight of the Jews. This dude was a card carrying Zionist and Abdulhamid wasn't born yesterday. History probably would have forgiven him, nay, cheered him on in fact, if the Sultan had turned to Herzl and told him quite simply to piss off. But the Sultan had too much breeding for that.

"The Jews, as you know,” he said instead, “have been our valuable subjects for many centuries. They found safe asylum in our country after the Spanish expulsion, and have always been welcome, as they always will be."

"But they need a country of their own, your highness. Palestine is ideal."

"Palestine is not mine to give," Abdulhamid had cut him off severely, growing impatient with the man's audacity. "It is the Palestinians'. You are welcome to chunks of Anatolia, if you want to make a country for your people. But Palestine I cannot sell you."

“Perhaps I’ve failed to communicate the gravity of the situation. Your Empire is in a shambles-” In that moment Abdulhamid very nearly did tell him to piss off, but his overwhelming anger stifled the words. The royal hand made a royal gesture instead, and Herzl was escorted out immediately, with his pride crushed, fist shaking and that fat, repulsive beard in tow. Here was a vengeful, Zionist piece of work if Abdulhamid had ever seen one. Not only was he bound to return, but his backers had probably already begun hatching alternative schemes to get what they wanted.

Immediately Abdulhamid had deployed his spies to the region in question to keep a close eye on the goings on. It wasn’t long before they struck gold. A lot of the locals had started selling their land to strange, wealthy buyers that we're offering big money. The buyers were Arab, by all accounts, but no one quite knew where they'd actually come from. This called for an emergency countermeasure. The Sultan couldn't very well tell people not to sell their own property, even if they were foolish, greedy peasants that were digging their own graves. And yet the national treasury had no funds to spare.

Out of desperation, Abdulhamid Han resorted to using his personal wealth. He started buying up all the land available before Herzl's lot got to it, and until he could afford to buy no more. This was completely possible, of course. Even a Sultan’s wealth has its limits (particularly in such ridiculous times.) And Abdulhamid Han’s comparatively modest wealth (in comparison to his royal contemporaries and the Sultans of old) reaches its limit on this particular afternoon. As the Sultan sits for a brief breather before commencing with another appointment, he personally owns about 3% of Palestine, and realizes it’s not nearly enough to save a country.

Placing an empty coffee cup on the tray by his side Abdulhamid picks up the second. It’s the Sultan’s custom to be served two Turkish coffees in one sitting, and most of the time, he drinks both. With the saucer in one hand and the demitasse cup in the other, he takes one sip, and then replaces the arrangement to light himself a cigarette.

Turkish coffee and cigarettes (the latter made exclusively for him by an artisan tütüncü) are among the few personal indulgences he allows himself. Behind the facade of Sultan, Abdulhamid is a simple man with simple pleasures, like music and woodwork. Indeed, a lot of the furniture in his homes were handmade by himself.

Another pleasure he generally allows himself is an hour of nap-time at noon, because rising daily before the sun does, and often having to work late, puts a real strain on his body and mind. Today though, Abdulhamid has forgone his nap-time to deal with the aforementioned Palestinian property issues, and also to make room in his busy schedule for some Venetians (the next appointment) which are waiting outside his door at that very moment. What they are there for, he doesn’t know yet. But why they are there, he does. They are there because Mahmut Şevket Paşa, that unimaginative, R-rolling tool, beseeched an audience on their behalf. Abdulhamid doesn’t even want to wonder which bodily part they'd got him by, because England had already called shot-gun on his balls. With so many shady characters he associated with and so little to go around, it was worrying.

When the Sultan’s coffee reaches its dregs and his cigarette is stubbed out, enter the Venetians, single file. Upon laying eyes on them, Abdulhamid is possessed by a strange sense of dejavu which feels oddly like it doesn't belong to him. There are three men, in understated but expensive attire that could easily be described as stylish if it weren't for the hat one of them is wearing. It's funny.

The tallest among the three waffles on a while with the preliminary ceremonials in accented Turkish. The Italian interpreter stands by idly, a tad slighted by the lack of need for him. Not that there ever really is a need for him. The interpreter is a front after all. Abdulhamid is fluent in Italian, as he is in French, and various other European tongues. He simply likes making foreign delegates sweat occasionally.

"Gentlemen," the Sultan speaks. "We welcome you in our court, and wish to make your visit worthwhile. Please do not hesitate to express frankly any requests or grievances you might have."

"Great Sultan," funny hat speaks up for the first time. His accent is much stronger. "We do in fact come to your great city, seeking something very dear to us." Here it comes -Abdulhamid thinks. They’ll have the shoes from my feet if they could. Bring it on. "It is an ancient relic." Funny hat says, matter of factly, and then says nothing more.

"Efendi,” Abdulhamid ventures, when he realises that no other particulars are forthcoming, “you'll have to be more specific than that.”

“It is a religious relic.”

“Hmmm,” Abdulhamid hmmms, because in actual fact he’s beginning to lose patience. He’s also noticed their matching signet rings, which has immediately made him even more bias towards them. “Where is it?"

"Buried.”

“I aimed so near. Underground, I presume?”

“Indeed.”

“’twas a lucky guess. Where abouts?”

 “In the catacombs beneath Fatih,” the man says, and Abdulhamid’s impatience dispels suddenly to be replaced by a curiosity he sees fit to conceal. Relics in the catacombs of Istanbul rings a sinister bell with him.

“And you know that it is there, how?” 

 “We once had access to it, but this hasn't been the case for many millennia. We wish to reclaim it."

"Reclaim it?" History repeats itself and Abudlhamid cocks an eyebrow. He wants to say 'Is it your father's registered property then?' but doesn't. He decides to play the amiable fool instead, which often helps to catch people off guard so you end up learning more in the end. "Can I know how it was lost to you?"

The men look at each other uncomfortably and then eventually funny hat speaks, "The basilica cistern was our access point."

"Ah." The proverbial penny, which had been precariously balancing on the precipice of comprehension, finally drops. Abdulhamid has a clearer idea of what they are now, but he's still in the dark about what exactly it is they're after. Nothing a bit of historical detective work won’t reveal though. "You're asking me for permission to excavate in the heart of Istanbul?" He continues to play the fool.

"Retrieving it will not be so complicated as that. We know exactly where it is."

"Oh that’s good. So, where is it?"

"It’s…difficult…to say."

"I see. And why come for it now?”

“Now?”

“I mean to say, it’s been nearly five centuries since the Basilica Cistern was made off limits to shady characters such as yourselves," Abdulhamid’s wit rears its head a tad.

"I beg your pardon?” Funny hat is thrown off by the sudden change in the Sultan’s tone. The tall one comes to his rescue, “Uncertain times are upon us, great Sultan.” He says. “We wish only for it to be safe."

You bull-shitter -Abdulhamid thinks. You're here because you think we are weak and stupid and you can have your way with us. The look he gives the men also says as much, but his words don’t. "I will convene with my council," is his response "you will have my response within a fortnight."

The Italians vacate the meeting room hopefully and with profuse bowing. Little are they aware that the Sultan has already made his mind up about the matter, and his decision is not in their favour. He has, after all, no council –in the general sense of the word- which he can truly trust. Most of the nobility and politicians which surround him are crooked, back-stabbing pawns, each at the beck and call of a different foreign power. He avoids convening with them as often as is diplomatically possible.

He does, however, have instead a motley handful of politically unremarkable friends, who are cultured, world-wise and very capable. If this were a superhero comic, they'd each have distinct and invaluable super-powers, veiled beneath a carefully crafted facade of humble alter-egos. They range from Paşas, to spiritual men, to complete apparent-nobodies. One of them is Esvapçı başı İsmet Bey, who reads mystery novels for Abdulhamid at night times, to help the sultan forget the worries of state and fall asleep. Another is Abdul Halil Bey, otherwise known as Torajiro Yamada. He has been enjoying minor-celebrity status as a token Japanese in Istanbul this year, because his country of little people with giant courage, recently kicked Russian ass in the Ruso-Japanese war.

How Yamada came to be in Istanbul is a rather long-winded story. It’d all began with the order of the Chrysanthemum, gifted to Abdulhamid by Emperor Meiji following the visit of his nephew to Istanbul. And then came the wreck of the goodwill frigate, Ertuğrul, which Abdulhamid had sent to the East to further cement Ottoman-Japanese friendship. On its return the ship encountered a storm off the coast of Wakayama. The rest was historic tragedy.

Two years later Torajiro Yamada appeared in Istanbul, bearing aid funds collected by his sympathetic countrymen for the families of those Turkish sailors who’d perished. Naturally, everyone had regarded the man as an endearing curiosity at first. They were grateful and deeply moved, but at a loss for what to make of such a noble gesture from a land so far away. Also, the then 24-year old Yamada quite liked Turkey, and decided to stick around on Abdulhamid’s request. He began frequenting the court a great deal and was charged with teaching Japanese to a group of military cadets. Everyone went along with it, but they never really got why.

Now though, things were different. Now Turkey regarded Japan as its Asian brother with mutual enemies. Shops across the capital were being re-named ‘Nogi’. There was even a small side-street in Istanbul called ‘Togo’. And as if overnight, Yamada became a hero. This made him rather embarrassed. Generally.

On the evening following Abdulhamid’s meeting with the dodgy Venetiants, embarrassed is Yamada again, when the shy Japanese man pops by to pay the Sultan a visit. On his way in, he ran into a Paşa who asked if he was looking to take a wife soon, and if so, the eldest of his own daughters was now of marriageable age. Naturally, her beauty hadn’t seen the light of day, etc. and so forth.

"Ve Aleykum Esselam,” Abdulhamid returns Yamada’s greeting as the man enters his study, with a tell-tale blush across his face. “Konbanwa," he adds, taking opportunity to make use of one of four Japanese phrases he's recently learned. The other three are Sumimasen, and rather curiously, korosu, and shine. These translate as, pardon me, I'll kill you, and die! Respectively. “How does it go, Yamada Bey?”

“Elhamdullah, nothing new. Same bowl, same bath house.” By comparison, Yamada's command of Turkish is not only flawless, he’s also developed a knack for using local idioms. Ten years in Turkey may have had something to do with this. "Sultanim,” Yamada says with some concern, “your face is very white."

Abdulhamid leans back in his chair and rests his hand on the scroll he’s spent a considerable amount of time examining since the day before. It’s a record dating back to Sultan Mehmet’s reign, of an obscure incident which is relevant to his recent encounter.

“Only an hour before you arrived I received some news,” he offers eventually as Yamada takes a seat. “Yesterday I dispatched a team via the Yildiz Intelligence Bureau on a mission to explore the catacombs beneath the city.”

“…” Yamada says nothing. He wasn’t even aware there were catacombs beneath the city until now. Abdulhamid gathers as much from his inane expression.

“You know of the Basillica Cistern, no?”

“Ah yes,” Yamada’s face illuminates. Of course.

“Do you know anything of the Medusa?”

“Nothing at all.”

“I see.” There is silence, and then, “Perhaps I should lend you some Greek classical literature.”

“I would like that very much.”

“In any case, there seems to be a demon beneath the city.”

“Akuma?”

“The team discovered its sarcophagus. They were foolish enough to decide to take a peek inside, which was no easy feat, considering how big the thing is and how heavy its lid.”

“The Akuma was inside?”

“Whatever was inside, it caused two men to lose their faculties to speak.”