The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

Death settled over Istanbul like a fog that wouldn’t lift, seeping through every hole and crack. It fluttered about in the sea breeze, frothed in the yeast of bread, brewed in the thick, bitter coffee. Little by little people stopped going about; shrinking from gatherings, they sank into solitude. The splash of oars and the murmurs of oarsmen could not be heard even on the quietest evenings. No one wished to journey from one shore to the other if they didn’t have to. Never had Istanbulites been so afraid of standing out in the crowd. Never had they been so afraid of offending God. For He had a peevish disposition, the God of the early days of the plague. People were forever worried about the wrong word escaping from their lips, the wrong hand touching their skin, the wrong smell filling their nostrils. They bolted their doors and darkened their windows to avoid the sunrays that spread the disease.