hard stone lip. The press of the crowd pounds his shoulder into the metal grille that fills each arch. Orhan clings tightly to Connor, pulling him forwards towards an immense ceremonial entrance. He darts through it, leading Connor behind him.
In the courtyard beyond the gateway Connor is confronted by the most remarkable building he has ever seen. Sweeping domes trace delicate and airy crescents against the cornflower-blue spring sky. Six pointed towers, impossibly thin and unfeasibly tall, ascend to the heavens. He gazes up at one, head spinning.
Orhan is insistent. ‘This way, Connor Bey! It is not safe. Come!’
Unenthusiastically, Connor allows Orhan to lead him to a hidden open arcade along one side of the raised platform on which the mosque stands. Scores of tiny brass taps protrude in a long row from the marble foundations. Seated on low rush stools before the running water, men quietly wash their bare feet, scooping water into cupped hands to splash over their heads and faces.
‘Is this a public bathhouse?’
Orhan laughs. ‘Not bath, Connor Bey. For Allah. We wash for Allah.’ He takes a vacant stool and removes his slippers. ‘Come! You wash too.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘For the mosque, Connor Bey. To go in mosque, you must wash.’
Connor hesitates, reluctant to participate. Up and down the row of men performing their ablutions, faces turn towards him. Water spurts loudly from the pipes, filling a channel carved in the marble floor. He sits and marvels at such an abundance of water, gushing away. Such waste. Begrudgingly, he removes his boots, peels off his socks and immerses his feet in the jarringly cold cascade spilling from the tap.
‘Head and face, Connor Bey!’
He fashions his hands into a scoop and catches some of the falling water. Mimicking Orhan, he tips it over his head and wipes his face, feels the icy chill trickle down his neck and chest. He licks his lips. The water is sweet, fresh, cold. Not at all like the water he coaxed up to the surface from artesian wells back home. This is mountain water, spring water, fed by melting snow and winter rains. It tastes of mossy forests and cool glades. It is everything that his water is not.
Weighted fabric curtains block the entrance to the mosque. Orhan moves ahead, holding them aside for Connor to pass. Ducking his head, he enters.
As his eyes adjust to the darker space, he notices something missing. Chairs. Benches. Seats. This immense space is completely devoid of furniture. There is nowhere to sit, other than upon the intricate patchwork of carpets that covers the entire floor. And then Connor looks up. The dimension, majesty and ethereal beauty of the soaring blue-tiled dome above his head are beyond anything Connor has ever imagined. He can only assume this is the Blue Mosque Ayshe beseeched him to visit. The glossy painted tiles are so vivid, the light so clear and the dome so high that it almost seems to disappear into the heavens. In one corner, a curious turreted tower stands; Connor presumes it to be something akin to a pulpit. And facing that in ranks, rows of men kneel on the floor, alternately raising their hands then lying, prostrate, face down.
Orhan has been watching him. ‘You have a place like this where you come from?’
Connor pauses, lost for words, then answers dryly, ‘Yes, but a bit bigger.’
He turns, pulls aside the curtain at the entrance.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Orhan and Connor slip out through the side entrance of the mosque and away from the riot. They can still hear the angry shouts and the roar of the mob that is yet to disperse.
The odd pair walks in silence. Connor is still trying to digest what he has seen.
Orhan, Connor is learning, is incapable of keeping quiet for long. The boy fills the dead air with his tour-guide patter. ‘It was built by Sultan Ahmed.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mosque was built by Sultan Ahmed. He was very great man. It is three hundred years old. Very
In the courtyard beyond the gateway Connor is confronted by the most remarkable building he has ever seen. Sweeping domes trace delicate and airy crescents against the cornflower-blue spring sky. Six pointed towers, impossibly thin and unfeasibly tall, ascend to the heavens. He gazes up at one, head spinning.
Orhan is insistent. ‘This way, Connor Bey! It is not safe. Come!’
Unenthusiastically, Connor allows Orhan to lead him to a hidden open arcade along one side of the raised platform on which the mosque stands. Scores of tiny brass taps protrude in a long row from the marble foundations. Seated on low rush stools before the running water, men quietly wash their bare feet, scooping water into cupped hands to splash over their heads and faces.
‘Is this a public bathhouse?’
Orhan laughs. ‘Not bath, Connor Bey. For Allah. We wash for Allah.’ He takes a vacant stool and removes his slippers. ‘Come! You wash too.’
‘Why would I do that?’
‘For the mosque, Connor Bey. To go in mosque, you must wash.’
Connor hesitates, reluctant to participate. Up and down the row of men performing their ablutions, faces turn towards him. Water spurts loudly from the pipes, filling a channel carved in the marble floor. He sits and marvels at such an abundance of water, gushing away. Such waste. Begrudgingly, he removes his boots, peels off his socks and immerses his feet in the jarringly cold cascade spilling from the tap.
‘Head and face, Connor Bey!’
He fashions his hands into a scoop and catches some of the falling water. Mimicking Orhan, he tips it over his head and wipes his face, feels the icy chill trickle down his neck and chest. He licks his lips. The water is sweet, fresh, cold. Not at all like the water he coaxed up to the surface from artesian wells back home. This is mountain water, spring water, fed by melting snow and winter rains. It tastes of mossy forests and cool glades. It is everything that his water is not.
Weighted fabric curtains block the entrance to the mosque. Orhan moves ahead, holding them aside for Connor to pass. Ducking his head, he enters.
As his eyes adjust to the darker space, he notices something missing. Chairs. Benches. Seats. This immense space is completely devoid of furniture. There is nowhere to sit, other than upon the intricate patchwork of carpets that covers the entire floor. And then Connor looks up. The dimension, majesty and ethereal beauty of the soaring blue-tiled dome above his head are beyond anything Connor has ever imagined. He can only assume this is the Blue Mosque Ayshe beseeched him to visit. The glossy painted tiles are so vivid, the light so clear and the dome so high that it almost seems to disappear into the heavens. In one corner, a curious turreted tower stands; Connor presumes it to be something akin to a pulpit. And facing that in ranks, rows of men kneel on the floor, alternately raising their hands then lying, prostrate, face down.
Orhan has been watching him. ‘You have a place like this where you come from?’
Connor pauses, lost for words, then answers dryly, ‘Yes, but a bit bigger.’
He turns, pulls aside the curtain at the entrance.
‘Come on. Let’s go.’
Orhan and Connor slip out through the side entrance of the mosque and away from the riot. They can still hear the angry shouts and the roar of the mob that is yet to disperse.
The odd pair walks in silence. Connor is still trying to digest what he has seen.
Orhan, Connor is learning, is incapable of keeping quiet for long. The boy fills the dead air with his tour-guide patter. ‘It was built by Sultan Ahmed.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Mosque was built by Sultan Ahmed. He was very great man. It is three hundred years old. Very
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