The Architect's Apprentice

by Elif Shafak

his face as unreadable as a faded manuscript,

‘Al-Khidr travelled with the Prophet Moses and unravelled the secrets of the universe. Next to his knowledge, mine is a droplet of water.

I believe, using the right measurements, we can locate the invisible sources.’

‘A man who’s just come out of prison is a man in need of joy.’

a brothel in Istanbul was a bit like the beginning of a Turkish tale – Once there was, once there wasn’t.

Her eyes had a distant look, as if in search of other, long-ago evenings.

‘God has built the palace of our body and entrusted to us its key,’

Remember, even a beggar owns a palace.’

It was after this incident that Jahan understood his master’s secret resided not in his toughness, for he was not tough, nor in his indestructibility, for he was not indestructible, but in his ability to adapt to change and calamity, and to rebuild himself, again and again, out of the ruins. While Jahan was made of wood, and Davud of metal, and Nikola of stone, and Yusuf of glass, Sinan was made of flowing water. When anything blocked his course, he would flow under, around, above it, however he could; he found his way through the cracks, and kept flowing forward.

‘No worse curse than to bury all your loved ones and still keep breathing.’

‘Chota missed you, your Highness,’ said Jahan quietly. She inspected him, taking in the marks of time. ‘How can you tell?’ ‘Many a day I found him waiting with his eyes fixed on the path your Highness had graced.’

was lined with wrinkles, an obscure calligraphy inked by time.

Jahan thought of him as a flickering candlelight – nervous, erratic, awaiting the wind that would one day put him out.

‘All I know about love is that it brings heartache, your Highness.’

you fight battles that aren’t needed,’ said Olev. ‘You are stronger. Beware, though. If you carry a sword, you obey the sword, not the other way round. Nobody can hold a weapon and keep their hands clear of blood at the same time.’

In our craft we seldom see people. We befriend stone quarries, converse with tiles, listen to marble.

May God grant you according to your desire and keep you balanced,

Did he have a notion of an Elephant-Self or did he only grasp the world external to him?

One way or another, everyone was parading. They performed their tricks, each of them, some staying longer, others shorter, but in the end they all left through the back door, similarly unfulfilled, similarly in need of applause.

the dreamer of poems too delicate,

What difference did it make whether they were hurt or happy, right or wrong, when the sun rose and the moon waned just the same, with or without them?

in his desire to copy his master, had not contributed from his soul.

We do not raise buildings that float in empty space. We reflect the harmony of nature and the spirit of the place.’

was lonely enough to make you love your own shadow and crowded enough to leave you gasping for air.

The leaves rustled, the slugs inched forward, a moth’s wings beat in the breeze. Jahan savoured every detail, sensing he would never have this moment again. Time became a river.

You go for the ones who are good but are . . .’ He halted, searching for the word. ‘Lost . . . abandoned . . . forsaken.’

With eyes dark with bitterness and a mouth that clearly hadn’t smiled in ages,

‘We love the same woman,’ Takiyuddin said. ‘What d’you mean?’ Jahan faltered. ‘The sky, we are both besotted with her. Sadly, we are mortal. After we are gone, others will love her.’

the worth of one’s faith depended not on how solid and strong it was, but on how many times one would lose it and still be able to get it back.

life was the sum of the choices one did not make; the paths yearned for but not taken.

banter that swirled with no immediacy and no weight, like wispy balls of dust.

Inhaling the fragrance of ink, vellum, paper and time, he ran his fingers along the spines.

You are the witnesses to each other’s journeys.’

You are the witnesses to each other’s journeys. You will know, therefore, if one of you goes astray. Follow the path of the wise, the awakened, the loving, the hard working.

Centre of the universe was neither in the East nor in the West. It was where one surrendered to love.

They looked back to the old days, resenting the mistakes made, the opportunities squandered, the paths untaken, the youths misspent.

‘Truth is a butterfly: it lands on this flower and that. You run after it with a net. If you capture it, you are happy. But it won’t live long. Truth is a delicate thing.’

Some cities you go to because you want to; some cities you go to because they want you to.

‘May the world flow like water,’ Sinan used to say. I can only hope that this story, too, will flow like water in the hearts of its readers.