Bosphorus Rose
Chapter 6
The mosque complex was a rather humble structure in a rather humble neighbourhood. The main mosque building was made of stone, crowned with a dome while a towering minaret stood to its side. The rest of the buildings were wood – the soup kitchen, the small school and the administrative building. The mosque was separated from the soup kitchen by a courtyard, where there was a small gated garden open to the public during the daytime.
Iskender wasn't impressed, to be honest as Fatima showed him around. His estate at Nicomedia was much bigger. If he had the money to commission such a structure – which he did, he would've at least made it more grand. He would have to leave an impression. Ismail Celebi's mosque complex wasn't very grand nor impactful. He didn't even name it after himself.
He couldn't understand the religious sometimes. Why would someone do something so charitable and not want something from it? It was foolish, he thought.
But perhaps most importantly, he was disappointed that it wasn't Murad showing him around. He would've loved to listen to him talk. He would've loved to be able to tease him and make his cheeks go pink.
"Won't you show me around, boy?" Iskender had said once they alighted.
He walked towards Murad, but Fatima was quick to intercept him.
"Oh, Iskender Effendi," she called out. "The soup kitchen is right over here."
Iskender couldn't help but feel his heart sink as he watched Murad walk away with Azemet.
Murad was glad that he wasn't the one to deal with Iskender. Iskender made him very nervous.
But most importantly, he was also glad Fatima was out of the picture. Azemet couldn't help but worry over Fatima as he kept looking over his shoulder at the two of them heading towards the soup kitchen.
"Don't worry about her," Murad told his older brother. "She can take care of herself."
"You're right," Azemet sighed. "It's just that. . . I can't help it."
"You're in love with her," Murad said. "Of course you can't help it."
The two of them headed towards the kitchens, where the staff had begun to unpack the food and repack them into little packages to be distributed to the people around the neighbourhood. For those who came to the foundation itself, the food would be served hot. A small, curious crowd had already gathered outside the entrance.
Murad started to pack some himself. Each package had some pilaf, some meat, and some stuffed eggplants. In a smaller package he placed in the desserts. The staff tried to tell him that it was alright, that he was the bridegroom and he shouldn't be doing all this, but Murad insisted.
"They're right brother," Azemet said. "You need all the energy you have for later."
Murad still kept insisting on packing.
Azemet leaned in closer to his ear.
"Especially for tonight."
Azemet stepped away, watching as Murad's face turned beetroot. He frowned at him, before storming out of the kitchen.
The cook raised an eyebrow at Azemet, who responded with a shrug.
Murad had stepped out into the courtyard to get some fresh air. Azemet was quick to follow him.
"I told you not to talk about that!" Murad said, flustered.
"Come on," Azemet said, patting his shoulder. "I was just teasing you."
Murad sighed, letting his shoulders fall.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "I didn't mean to get angry at you."
Azemet only patted his younger brother on the back. He was always so sweet. Whenever he got angry at Azemet he was quick to apologise.
He knew Murad was worried about that night.
"You'll be fine," he told him. "Like I said, just do what comes naturally to you."
"But I don't know what to do," Murad sighed. "I don't even know where to start."
Azemet didn't really know what to say. His little brother was too innocent.
"You know," he said, awkwardly. "Kiss her I guess. Then you uh. . .stick it in."
The boy's face turned pink. It wasn't like he didn't know how sex worked, he did read about it in one of his books. But verbalising his doubts out loud just made things more awkward.
Murad felt ashamed thinking about it. Even in things like this, he compared himself to Azemet. He remembered how he would turn away in embarrassment whenever he caught sight of Azemet naked.
Azemet was bigger.
"It'll be over before you know it," Azemet said. "Just don't think too much about it."
Azemet wasn't really being very helpful, but at the very least he had stopped teasing him.
Murad took out the handkerchief from his pocket.
"This is for you," Murad said, holding the white cloth in front of him.
"N-No," Azemet replied. "I can't take this. This is a gift for your wedding."
Murad placed the soft handkerchief in Azemet's palm and closed it.
"You should have it," he said to his brother. "It means much more to you."
It was then when Murad caught sight of Fatima and Iskender, walking out of the mosque.
Iskender was honestly uncomfortable as Fatima gave him a tour of the complex. He felt like a hostage. He was only there because Azemet had knocked him out cold and they had no choice but to bring him with them. Iskender would never voluntarily step foot in a mosque, or a soup kitchen, or anything else that wasn't a place of merriment. He was sweating.
Fatima had noticed, and it amused her.
Murad saw the two of them approach, and it gave him an idea. Iskender was certainly much more experienced. Surely he would have some advice for him. But he needed Azemet to go away.
The four of them headed back into the main building of the foundation, where the staff had begun to invite the poor inside to serve the meals. Murad had rolled up his sleeves and started to help as well. Iskender couldn't help but sneer. This boy was truly one of a kind. He couldn't believe such a person could exist in a world full of jealousy, hatred and greed. He just couldn't understand why Murad was the way he was.
Azemet was about to step up to him and tell him that showing his face was enough, but Fatima stopped him, raising her palm slightly.
"Just let him," she said. "It makes him happy."
Azemet could only oblige as he felt his heart thump in his chest. Azemet had always been overprotective of Murad.
The two of them watched Murad happily scoop up food and hand out plates to the people who had gathered. He had a smile on his face, and even talked to some of them. Iskender just stood to the side, feeling rather uncomfortable.
He wanted to leave, yet at the same time he couldn't stop looking at the boy. He felt like he was staring at an object of wonder.
Iskender had never really thought of charity. He had only thought about himself for the most part. Every coin, every grain of rice he earned, he had to fight tooth and nail for, so why should he give it away?
At least that was how he felt up until that point. But he would be lying if he said that seeing Murad put a smile on so many faces didn't affect him one bit.
Fatima gestured for Azemet to follow her, and he obliged. Soon they were out in the courtyard again.
"I'm just worried about him," she said as she sat herself down on a stone bench.
"He'll be fine," Azemet said, his cheeks getting warm.
He had stood beside her, despite the empty seat right next to her on the bench. To a stranger, one would have thought that he was her bodyguard.
"You're just saying that to make me feel better," she replied. "You've always been so protective of him, more than I ever have. You'd be untruthful if you said you weren't worried about him.
"Yeah," Azemet sighed, giving up. "You're right. I am worried about him."
He could feel his cheeks flush knowing Fatima saw right through him.
"You've all the right to," she replied. "You've always been looking out for him."
Azemet only nodded. Fatima stood up and beckoned him to walk with her through the courtyard. It was a rather simple cobblestoned square, with a few benches and planters, but it was a breath of fresh air from the claustrophobic mass of three storied timber buildings packed against each other. The bougainvilleas were in full bloom, their papery petals scattered across the stony ground.
"It's a shame it isn't spring," Fatima said. "The gardens everywhere would be full of-"
"Crocuses," Azemet said, unintentionally finishing her sentence.
They were Fatima's favourite.
But when he noticed Fatima looking at him, he immediately felt the blood rush to his cheeks. He silently cursed himself.
"How did you know I was going to say that?" she asked him.
"It was just a guess," Azemet replied.
Fatima stayed silent, and Azemet almost wanted to punch himself.
"Well, truth be told," Fatima finally said. "I'm worried about the both of you."
"What for?" Azemet blurted out.
He just didn't know how to react knowing that he was in her thoughts.
"The two of you need each other," she replied. "And I've noticed how restless the both of you are without the other."
It was true, the brothers had never been separated for more than a few days at most.
"It's just natural," Azemet replied, shrugging. "We're brothers."
"No, that's not just it," Fatima added. "You're more than that. You're his only link to the past, and he is yours."
She was right. They were the only ones who could understand each other's pain. And even after fifteen years, it was still excruciating to think about.
"I just wanted you to know that if you ever need someone to talk to," Fatima said. "That I'm here to listen."
Azemet felt Fatima's gentle hand on his sleeve. His heart thumped in his chest, but to have her so close to him made him happy.
Murad didn't even know how much Azemet needed him. He had thought it was always the other way around. In fact, Murad gave his older brother the strength to move on. In a foreign, faraway place, left alone without anyone Murad was the only one that he had. Whenever he felt restless, alone or hopeless he remembered that innocent boy who wanted to turn back into the freezing river to look for his brother. Protecting him and putting up a brave front for him was honestly what kept Azemet going.
But Murad was a man now, he didn't need his protecting any longer.
He supposed Fatima was right. Murad was his only link to the past that he was still trying to come to terms with.
Meanwhile, Murad finally found himself alone with Iskender, away from Fatima and Azemet's protective glares. He left the staff to the distribution of the food and walked towards Iskender. He put on a nervous smile as he approached, he was unsure about how he'd react after Murad ignored him earlier. To his surprise, Iskender smiled back.
Iskender was unsure why he flashed the boy a smile either. It was as if his lips had a mind of its own.
"I hope you find this place to your liking," Murad asked sweetly.
"Oh, it's very nice," Iskender replied, lying straight through his teeth.
Murad's eyes lit up when he heard those words. Iskender felt a bit bad. But well, he'd be lying if he said that Murad's presence didn't make it more tolerable.
Murad was different. Murad was unlike anyone he's ever met.
"I was wondering if I could speak to you," Murad asked.
"You already are," Iskender replied, smirking.
"Right," Murad said, looking around. "Could we speak in private?"
Iskender only shrugged. Why not? He was getting rather bored anyway.
Murad led him to the main office in the administration building. It was a simple room, yet slightly more well-furnished than the others. If the design of the entire complex was functional, so was the main office. Other than it being the place where Murad did the bookkeeping and other administrative issues, it was also where he received visitors and potential sponsors. The office was designed to comfortably host important guests, and cosy them up for their money. It wasn't necessarily something devious, after all most of the support they received were from important, respected figures and palace people. They were guests who were used to luxury. In a sense, it was also to remind society that the family of Ismail Celebi were also respectable people.
Fairness was to treat people appropriately, not necessarily equally. The poor were more impressed with a hot meal to fill their stomachs than a teak desk imported from British India. Iskender looked at all the furniture, the heavy desk in the middle with two luxurious armchairs facing it to the ornate rolltop desk to the side with books and stationery scattered all over it.
"Forgive me, it's a mess," Murad said. "I was up all night yesterday, didn't really have time to pack all this up."
The boy went over to the desk and started chucking the books and stationery away.
"Don't bother," Iskender said. "What were you doing here all night anyway? You do realise it's your wedding the following day don't you?"
Murad only sighed as he turned around.
"I know," he muttered. "I just needed to distract myself from it."
"Is that what you wanted to talk about?" Iskender asked, just making a guess. "About you getting married to Muhsine."
Murad only nodded, gesturing towards the armchair for Iskender to sit.
Iskender cocked his head and smirked. He sat himself on top of the heavy desk in the centre of the room, leaning back.
"Well," he chuckled. "Ask whatever you like. But do know that me and her aren't on the very best terms."
Murad found it a bit rude that Iskender decided to sit down on his desk, but he realised it was he that needed a favour from him, and not the other way around. He was also quite interested to know what the issue was between Iskender and his family, but he felt it was rude to ask. In the end he didn't say anything, but Iskender himself realised he was being too cocky, and especially after what had happened earlier he realised he'd better behave.
Sheepishly, he slid off the desk, and opted for the guests' armchair instead.
Murad didn't sit behind the desk, but instead sat on the chair beside him, before abruptly getting up.
"Oh, where are my manners," Murad blurted out, the rosy tint returning to his pale cheeks. "Would you like some tea Iskender Effendi?"
Iskender merely shook his head. He couldn't help but feel the corners of his lips curl up into a smile, truly this boy was something else. He was just so. . . good. Iskender had a hard time believing he was even real.
"So," Iskender said. "What is it that you wanted to ask?"
"Well, if it isn't too hard to ask," Murad began, rubbing his legs together sheepishly. "I was thinking. . . since you're rather – or from what I've heard, that you're very. . . experienced, I thought that I'd like to ask some advice from you."
Iskender raised his eyebrow. Murad certainly had a very interesting choice of words. He let the boy continue.
"Well, I'm sure you're very familiar with women and I just thought that I could ask you about. . . tonight – "
"You want to ask me how to fuck my sister?" Iskender cut the poor boy off, guffawing.
Murad's face turned beetroot.
Iskender had never laughed so hard in his life. There were tears pooling in his eyes as he clutched his stomach. Murad immediately regretted thinking that going to Iskender was a good idea. Of course he'd laugh at him.
"Sorry," Iskender said, wiping the tears from his eyes when he was finally done laughing. "I just found it hilarious that you'd ask the bride's brother of all people."
Murad hadn't thought of it that way. It only further deepened his embarrassment.
"It's alright though, I'm not going to tell anyone," Iskender said, leaning into his seat.
That seemed to reassure Murad somewhat, and he relaxed.
"Well what do you want to know?" Iskender said, clutching his hands together. "Like do you want me to go into explicit detail or - "
"I know about that part," Murad cut him off, embarrassed. "But I just want to know how to make the night pleasant for the both of us. At least tell me how to start."
"Well, you know sex isn't just sex," Iskender began, not really knowing where to start. "But you also have to remember the more emotional aspects of it. Try starting with that."
"What do you mean?" Murad asked.
"You know, before you get them into bed you have to make them feel good, make them feel like they're wanted, make them feel like they're loved," Iskender said, speaking from experience.
Murad listened intently.
"You tell them how beautiful they look," Iskender said. "Tell them their eyes are the most enchanting thing you've ever seen, tell them their hair is softer than silk."
Murad nodded, taking down Iskender's every word, while Iskender inched forward in his seat.
"You get her to soften up, to lower her guard," he continued, as he got closer. "Make her trust you. Make her feel safe."
Murad didn't notice Iskender's movement. He was too focused on trying to make sense of his words.
"Then you strike."
In a quick, calculated swoop, Iskender reached out and caressed the boy's cheek, his fingers brushing against his soft skin. Murad could immediately feel the blood rush to his cheek as he jerked himself away. Iskender had expected that, in fact, he did it on purpose just to see Murad blush.
But what he didn't expect was his own heart racing in his chest.
Murad was taken aback, unconsciously bringing a hand to wear his skin brushed against Iskender's finger. He didn't know how to react. Iskender had fallen back into his seat too, playing it cool but internally it was a differently story.
Iskender suddenly felt like the room was getting too hot and stuffy for his liking, and got up. He was getting uncomfortable.
"I," he muttered, his façade of cocky confidence dissipating fast. "I have to go."
Murad looked at him, still trying to comprehend what happened.
"I mean, I should be getting back to Pera," Iskender continued, trying to come up with a more solid excuse. "I have a lot of things to settle."
"Didn't you want to go to the wedding?" Murad asked. "It'll just be a bit more than we can all go back together."
"No, no" Iskender said, shaking his head. "It's fine. I forgot that I still have some work that I need to settle."
"Oh, okay," Murad replied. "I thought it'd be nice if you would come along with us."
This kid was one of a kind. Iskender only smile and thanked him for the offer.
Murad walked Iskender to the main entrance, as Iskender tried to avoid having any conversation with him. He didn't know why Murad had such an effect on him. Maybe it was because he was just so different, like nothing that he was ever used to.
But Iskender still hasn't apologised to Murad over what he did earlier, and time was running out. They had stepped out into the street.
"I have something I need to tell you," Iskender said.
"What is it?" Murad asked, thinking that Iskender might tell him something about his wife-to-be.
"About earlier," Iskender replied. "I'm sorry."
Somehow, the words seem to slide off easily from his tongue. The tongue so used to holding back apologies, too egotistical to admit that its master was ever in the wrong.
"You don't have to apologise," Murad said. "I've already forgiven you, don't think too much about it."
Iskender couldn't help but smile shyly.
"But you do owe Azemet an apology," Murad continued, folding his arms. "I really don't appreciate how you treated him. That wasn't nice."
"I didn't mean it," Iskender replied.
"You still shouldn't have said anything like that," Murad said.
"I know," Iskender said, his head hanging in shame. "I'm sorry."
"It's not me you should be apologising too," Murad answered.
Iskender only nodded sheepishly. That was the problem. He was sure he could apologise to Murad for anything, because he wanted to. The thing was, Murad was an exception. His mind till found it inconceivable to admit that he was wrong, but with Murad did so anyway.
"Anyway," Murad said. "I really shouldn't be holding you back, and I should be heading back home soon too. This is goodbye then."
Murad started to walk away.
"Wait," Iskender called out to him, stopping the boy in his tracks. "I've got a little something for you. A gift, for all the trouble today. Think of it as my way of thanking you."
"You don't have to," Murad replied, as Iskender fiddled in his coat pocket.
Before Murad could say anything, Iskender had slipped something into Murad's right palm and closed the boy's fingers around it. He was dangerously close to his ear as he leaned in.
"Thank you so much for today," he said, before abruptly turning around.
Murad just watched as Iskender walked off briskly, raising his arm in a gesture of farewell. He hopped into a nearby waiting carriage and soon he was off on his way to the ferry station to cross the Bosphorus.
He brought his palm up, opening it to see what object he had been clutching.
Iskender had given him a beautiful pocket watch, encased in gold.