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I felt weak but my head was clear and there was no impediment to my sight. I looked at Nesrin as she sat there intent on her work, her long hair tied back with a single ribbon to keep it from her eyes. She was wearing loose pantaloons of a kind Arab women sometimes wore, and she sat cross-legged. I would have liked to linger in this watching her, her quiet presence gave me such heart, but I was afraid she might surprise me in it and think me one who spied, so I spoke a greeting to her, and she glanced towards me and smiled, but in a way that seemed half-startled, as if my words had interrupted some secret thought.
"So, you are awake," she said. "I go down to get some soup for you. I make it, I made it, while you were sleeping. It is broth of mutton with lentils."
"It will be very welcome." In fact I felt hungry for the first time in many days. I was to learn later, from a Caterina divided between resentment and admiration, that Nesrin had taken command of the kitchen during my illness and would brook no opposition to her plans for the feeding of me.
And very good the soup was, but my strength was depleted, I could not manage my bowl and spoon without spilling, she came and sat by me and fed me as if I were a child and made a joke of it so that I felt no loss of dignity. Afterwards we talked for a while, then I slept again, but more fitfully now, with some slighter spells of fever still returning.
She was there when I opened my eyes – she kept a low lamp burning. I felt the touch of her hands and heard sometimes the murmur of her voice – she spoke in her own language to me as she bathed my brow. What was in the water to make it smell so good? Again I asked her. There was nothing, she said. It was fresh water from the well in the street.
Next day I felt much recovered and able to talk for longer. Nesrin had not known of my illness till she came to the house, but she had known of my absence from the Diwan; Stefanos had told her of it during her Greek lesson. She had known of Yusuf's end – this too from Stefanos – and been afraid for my safety. There was an irony in this that I lacked the courage to explain to her. It had occurred to me only now, in these calmer hours of my recovery, that my falsehoods against Yusuf had been kept secret because this was the best way of ensuring silence on my part. Of course, silence could be ensured by killing me and they would do this if they felt it necessary. But in Calabria I would be far enough away. If no other denounced me I would be unlikely to denounce myself, unlikely therefore to relate the circumstances of the betrayal, my part in Yusuf's murder. Why had it taken me so long to understand this very simple thing? My years at the Diwan had taught me nothing. I had spent my spirit in shame, in fear of recognition, fear of being known. Now the appearance of justice would be preserved and the knowledge of my lies would remain with those who had coerced me and so provide them with the means to coerce me again if ever they saw a need for it. These were among the first clear thoughts of my recovery and they were among the most desolate, because I knew that if by some chance I was ever in the King's mind again they would be his thoughts too.
As I say, I had not courage to speak of this with Nesrin, I was too afraid of her judgement. How could she not think ill of me when I thought so ill of myself? But we spoke of other things during this time that I was gaining strength again though still keeping to my bed. I asked her what I had intended to ask that night after the dancing when we had been alone together for the first time and I had wanted to keep her with me, about the Yazidis and they things they believed in. Her Greek was now so much improved that she was able to explain it to me without much faltering. There were many Yazidis, she said, among the people who lived far to the east, close to the lands of the Syrians and the Armenians and around the big lake they call Van. The people of Mount Ararat too? I asked her, being still much intrigued by the fact – or fable – that she had her origins in this place where the human race found firm ground again. Yes, she said, many of those who lived on the slopes of Ararat were Yazidis. But she herself did not believe in that story of the boat.
"Why is that?" I asked. I wanted to prolong the talk we were having, in my position of rest, with the pillows at my back, absorbed in watching the quick glances of her eyes, the small frowns that marred her brow when words would not come easily, the movements of her mouth as she spoke.
"Well," she said, "it is not possible, the time is not long enough to build a boat so big." When she found the Greek word she felt to be the right one she would emphasise it with a small air of triumph. "We must remember, it is only one family," she said.
"And who is the God of the Yazidis?" I asked.
"He who rules is Malak Tavus. This name has two parts. Malak is angel.
Tavus is bird. He is the bird that spread the tail behind and very proud." Here, still sitting where she was at the edge of the bed, shifting her haunches from side to side, she danced for me, shoulders back and arms spread out, turning her head to look proudly behind her.
"Very beautiful tail."
The dance itself had been greatly beautiful too. Also, whether by intention or not, very alluring, throwing her breasts into prominence.
Returning her gaze to me she must have seen some look in my eyes, for she nodded a little and said, "your health getting better, I notice, Thurstan Bey."
"You mean a peacock," I said, in some confusion.
"Yes, tavus."
"So the God of the Yazidis is a peacock."
She made a face of pity and patience. "Not god. Malak Tavus is the Peacock Angel, he is not peacock but has form of peacock. Is difficult to understand?"
"No," I said, "no."
"He has six angels to help him, they go here and there, they have many tasks. But he is not god, god is above him, we do not know the form of god, how can a person know the form of one who made the world and the sun and the stars?" She made a quick gesture as if flicking a fly away.
"He made them just like that, for a game. He had joy to make them but after he does not care, he leaves everything to the Peacock Angel. He never judge, he never punish anybody. He forgave Shaitan and took him back to be chief of the angels. So there is no wrong. Well, there is wrong, but it is not to do with Shaitan, as you Christians believe, because he is not Shaitan, he is chief of the angels now. I do not know the word for this kind of wrong."
"You mean, there is no sin?"
"Yes, I mean that. There is wrong but there is no sin."
She was very clear about this difference and convinced, as I could see from her face. It was hard for me to think of a god who did not judge, hard to imagine a religion without promise of reward and threat of punishment, though glimpsing the freedom there might be in such a view.
But I said nothing of this at the time. She was confiding her beliefs and I felt it brought us closer in understanding.
"If you do much wrong," she said, "you will be less in your next life."
She left soon afterwards saying she would return later. I remember sitting there, still propped up in bed, and looking round the room she had just left. For a while her voice and movements still seemed to stir in the air. Then it was as if the room darkened.