A Dead Man in Istanbul (10 page)

Mr Cubuklu was an elderly grey-haired man in the gown traditionally reserved for indoors. He had a more bony face than most Turks and sharp grey eyes. He went to the end of the room and sat down in front of the dais, and, just at that moment, the musician appeared, carrying a weird stringed instrument. He bowed nervously to the audience and twice to Mr Cubuklu and then squatted down.

Seymour hadn’t been sure what to expect. Not this, he thought, after the musician had begun playing. It wasn’t, of course, European music and had the strange half tones of the music he had heard from the cafés; but there was in addition a kind of dancing, gypsy-like melody. The dance gave way, after some time, it must be said, to a mournful, wailing sort of music, to which, however, the audience listened, rapt.

This, too, continued for quite some time before it gave way to another wailing song, and then another. Then there was another jaunty, dancing piece, like the first, and then attendants came round with plates of sweetmeats.

A man in front of them turned round.

‘Most unusual, isn’t it?’ he said, in French. ‘To have a concert of saz music?’

‘Most unusual,’ Mukhtar agreed. ‘But delightful, don’t you think?’

‘Oh, yes,’ said the man.

Someone brought the saz player a glass of water. He sipped at it and then returned to his instrument, caressing it, without once raising his eyes and looking at the audience.

Mr Cubuklu had gone across the room to greet a man who had come in late. Judging by the way Mr Cubuklu received him, he was a man of some consequence.

‘Prince Hafiz,’ whispered Mukhtar.

Mr Cubuklu escorted the Prince to the front and made a place for him beside him. At once the saz player resumed his playing.

The music was attractive but Seymour was not used to sitting on the floor for hours and after a while found it hard to concentrate. His mind wandered and he fell into a drowse until a change in the music alerted him to the fact that the recital was coming to an end. He looked up and saw that the person of consequence had gone.

The saz player finished and sat bowed in front of the audience. It was with evident relief that he escaped from the applause and went off into an inner room.

‘Of course, he’s not used to playing in a place like this,’ said Mukhtar. ‘He’s a street musician, really.’

Mr Cubuklu, circulating, stopped in passing.

‘Mr Cubuklu, how can I ever thank you?’ cried Mukhtar.

‘He
is
rather good, isn’t he?’ said Mr Cubuklu, beaming.

‘Remarkable!’

‘Quite a discovery. For which we have to thank your colleague,’ he said to Seymour.

Colleague?

‘When he recommended him to me, I thought: what does an Englishman know of our music? But Cunningham Effendi was an unusual man. Such an ear! And such a sympathy for things Turkish!’

This was a new side of Cunningham, thought Seymour.

‘A real discovery! And in an ordinary Istanbul street! Of course, that is where a saz player should be, but it is not everyone who can spot a jewel when it is covered with dust. You’ve heard about how he came to find him, I expect?’ he said, turning to Seymour.

‘No? Well, it was an ordinary street near the bazaars. Close to the Place of Scribes. He was passing by when he heard him playing. It was just to an ordinary, disregarding crowd, but he stopped and listened. And he realized at once that he was listening to an extraordinary talent. He told me afterwards that he just stood there, entranced. And when he moved on – because that’s what they do, of course, they’re genuine street musicians – he went with him. He stayed with him for the whole of that afternoon, he told me.

‘By the end of the afternoon, he told me, he knew he had to do something about him, and he took him along to the Theatre of Desires and introduced him to the people there. Afterwards he thought that perhaps that had not been a good idea, but at the time it was the only one he could think of. At least they found him a bed for the night.

‘But they wouldn’t pay him, did you know that? They said it had to come out of the band’s ordinary money, which, of course, didn’t help matters. So what Cunningham did was to arrange to go to him for private lessons himself, so that the charge would not fall on the band. Most generous, don’t you think? Sadly, though, it didn’t work out. It was caviare to the general. So he brought him to me and asked if I could do something to help. And, of course, when I heard him play . . .!’

‘You are unjust to yourself, Mr Cubuklu,’ said Mukhtar. ‘It was very generous to take him under your wing.’

‘Well, of course, it’s not really my wing. It’s more Prince Hafiz’s. He was here earlier this evening. I wonder if you saw him? He is a great supporter of such causes.’

‘The Prince is an enthusiast for folk music?’

‘We share the passion.’

‘And it is very kind of you, Mr Cubuklu, to share it with us.’

‘It is something I shall take back with me to England,’ said Seymour. ‘This delightful acquaintance with old Turkey.’

‘There is still a little of it left,’ said Mr Cubuklu, modestly, but pleased. ‘But what there is has to be nourished.’

‘Which is what you do so well, Mr Cubuklu. Your protégé is indeed fortunate to have found so good a patron.’

‘Ah, yes, but will he stay? These saz players are not like ordinary musicians, you know,’ he said to Seymour. ‘They are wanderers. Like gypsies. Of course, that is how they find their songs. In small, obscure villages, where a man has been singing them for centuries. But that is what is so good about them, they are the well undefiled. All that comes after . . .’

He shook his head sorrowfully.

‘Mr Cubuklu,’ said Mukhtar, ‘I wonder if I could have a few words with him? Perhaps tomorrow, when he has recovered from this evening? There are some questions I would like to ask him.’

‘Questions?’

‘In my professional capacity, I’m afraid. I am a terjiman. I shrink from introducing a discordant note after such an evening but they concern the death of an actress at the Theatre of Desires.’

‘An actress? But, surely, there are no actresses –’

‘And, possibly, that of Cunningham Effendi,’ said Mukhtar hurriedly.

‘But all this is very unsavoury!’ said Mr Cubuklu.

‘It is indeed. The law, however, gives us no option, I’m afraid.’

‘But the Prince –’

‘Need not concern himself in any way. Nor be involved. I wish only to put a few questions to the saz player. They need not take long.’

‘They will upset him,’ said Mr Cubuklu, changing tack. ‘These people are very sensitive.’

‘I can promise you that I will do all I can to see that he is not upset.’

‘I am not sure, however, that I can allow . . . An actress, did you say? Is that really important? Important enough to justify such –’

‘And, of course, Cunningham Effendi. Possibly.’

‘Cunningham Effendi? Well, of course, that does make a difference. Well . . . Perhaps tomorrow morning, then,’ said Mr Cubuklu reluctantly.

‘Thank you, Mr Cubuklu. And thank you again for letting me share your pleasure. And, too, for allowing me to bring my friend.’

‘It is a great privilege, sir, to be given the opportunity to hear such playing,’ said Seymour, shaking hands. ‘Even if, as a foreigner, one cannot hope to do it justice.’

Mr Cubuklu nodded approvingly.

‘One of the old school,’ said Mukhtar enthusiastically, as they walked away. ‘You don’t meet many like him these days. So civilized, so refined! A real, old-style Ottoman gentleman! I thought you might like to meet one to see how it used to be.’

‘Yes, indeed.’

‘Of course, I am not an intimate of his, so it was very kind of him to invite us this evening. He is a friend of the father of one of my friends who is interested in music. I mentioned to my friend that I was trying to track down a saz player and he said, well, if it’s saz players you want, there is someone you must meet, a Mr Cubuklu. And it turned out that he was precisely the person that Cunningham had taken the saz player to when he was thrown out of the band!’

‘It appears that he went on to share him with Prince Hafiz?’

‘Well, of course, a Prince can do far more in the way of patronage than a Councillor, even one as senior as Mr Cubuklu. He was doing him a favour. And, of course, he was fortunate that Mr Cubuklu knew someone like Prince Hafiz who is interested in saz music. I mean, that is unusual in Palace circles. The saz is, what shall I say, a lowly instrument. For many in the Palace it would be beneath them. It is only someone like Mr Cubuklu, who treasures old traditions, who would take an interest in it.’

‘And, apparently, Prince Hafiz?’

‘That is even more unusual. But, then, Hafiz is different from most of the other Princes. They are mostly, well, playboys and layabouts. But Hafiz seems to have a genuine interest in the arts. Certainly the Ottoman arts, particularly the old ones. That is good, it is good that the Royal Family should take an interest in such things. But it is good, too, that he takes an interest in the saz, for the saz is an instrument of the people.’

He smiled.

‘You will gather, perhaps, that I am on the side of the people.’

‘Well, as a policeman, you should be.’

‘Yes, but it is more than that. In our country there is much that needs doing. And under the old Sultan too little has been done.’

He stopped, as if he had said too much, or spoken out of turn.

Chapter Ten

Seymour had arranged to meet Felicity for lunch. The landau was in use so he went down on foot, which was, actually, a relief to him. He always felt uncomfortable up there in the landau. It seemed a needless affectation of superiority. No landaus in the East End; at least, not for policemen!

The morning, too, was fresher than of late, with a distinct, cooling breeze coming up off the Horn, and he rather enjoyed the walk down; past the cemetery with its mortuary families, past the fruit markets with their fly-spotted fruit and porters crouched under heavy baskets, their arms hanging down ape-like, their hands almost brushing the ground. Past, too, the Theatre of Desires, with stagehands and workmen squatting on the steps, making the most of a break, he supposed.

Suddenly, the little theatre manager came rushing out.

‘They’re after me!’ he shouted. ‘They’re trying to finish me! They strangle my leading actress, they shoot my script writer, they try to frighten my people away! They’re trying to drive me out. But they won’t! I’ll fight back. I’ll show them. Rudi Sussenheim is not the man to be beaten.’

He dashed back inside.

The workmen looked at each other.

‘What the hell’s he on about?’

‘The police are everywhere this morning,’ someone said.

‘Yes, but –’

The little man dashed out again, this time pushing the youth Seymour had seen with Prince Selim the day before.

‘Your chance!’ he shouted. ‘I give you your chance. And do you take it? No, you just loll around. You can’t be bothered. The theatre is too hard for you. Acting is too hard for you. Anything is too hard for you! Except lowering your trousers and turning your backside towards some rich man.’

‘Raoul hasn’t learned his lines,’ said the youth.

‘Well, does that stop you from saying yours? Say yours and that will help him.’

‘He never helps me!’

The little man beat his forehead with his fist.

‘Can’t you see? This is the time when we all have to work together. Or else we’ll be done for! Oh, my God, why am I surrounded by idiots?’

‘Raoul is too old. He’s past it.’

‘It’s too late to find someone else. We have to make do. We have to put aside our differences and work together. That is what the theatre
is
. Oh, my God, what has happened to you all when I even have to say such things! But you, you haven’t the true spirit of an actor. I found you lying in the gutter –’

‘No, you didn’t! I came along and –’

‘I gave you your chance. And how do you repay me?’

‘It’s just that you need me now that Lalagé’s gone.’

‘I was building you up. Getting you ready. I spend months training you, I teach you all I know. I get you ready so that you can do something
big
. And then, when you are ready, when all the world is before you, what do you do? You hang back. You make difficulties. Just when the troupe needs you most. In its hour of need! Look, all I want you to do is stand in for our best actress. That’s all! Our best! What a chance I am giving you!’

The youth hesitated.

‘Can I wear the red dress?’

‘Of
course
you can wear the red dress! It’s yours. Think how you will look! Wonderful! Your chance! Glittering!’

‘All right, then, but you’ll have to speak to Raoul.’

‘I
have
spoken to Raoul. Come on, now. We’re all waiting for you.’

‘Go on your knees!’

‘Isn’t this going on my knees? Come on. Please!’ The little man swallowed. ‘I beg of you!’

‘All right, Rudi. If you put it like that.’

The youth looked around triumphantly. Then, reluctantly, but only half reluctantly, he allowed himself to be pushed up the steps and inside.

‘Asshole!’ said one of the workmen.

‘A bloody khaval,’ said another.

‘Bloody gink!’ said a third.

The little manager rushed back out.

‘Come on, come on!’ he said. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Waiting for the police to get out. They’re everywhere this morning.’

‘They’re not on the stage, are they? Come on, get in there!’

Over lunch, down by the Galata Bridge, Felicity told him how she had got on.

She had gone down to the quay, she said, immediately after he had spoken to her. The Prince’s felucca hadn’t been there and she had had to wait some time before it drew in. Then, while the crew was polishing the brass, or, possibly, gold, she had managed to strike up a conversation with the captain.

They had talked about the felucca. It was, the captain told her, the apple of the Prince’s eye. For the moment; there was a frequent turnover in apples. He made regular use of it to go over to his estate on the other side.

‘It’s a lovely boat!’ said Felicity enthusiastically.

‘He wants to put an engine in it,’ said the captain grimly.

‘Into this beautiful felucca?’ cried Felicity, aghast, all her yachtswoman’s instincts roused.

Her concern and, as obviously soon became apparent, her nautical knowledge, struck chords in the captain’s heart. He expanded visibly. Yes, he sailed the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara –

‘Right up to the Dardanelles?’

To the Dardanelles, yes, and even, on occasion, into the Mediterranean. ‘To the Gates of Hell if necessary,’ he declared, fired. But that hadn’t been necessary so far.

Felicity had mentioned Cunningham’s swim.

‘That’s how it is with the rich,’ said the captain. ‘One nutty thing after another!’

Yes, he’d taken them over to the Sestos side and watched Cunningham and the porter set out.

‘Goodbye, Sinbad!’ he had called to the boatman, as the boat departed. ‘Tell us about your adventures when you get back. If you get back.’

They had waited on the point for hours. And in the middle, would you believe it, the Prince had gone to get his hair cut! Even when he got back, they had hung on there. Not until the sun was about to go down had Selim agreed to move. And then, instead of going home, as the captain had assumed, they had sailed over to the other side. The captain had thought that they were going to pick up Cunningham and the boat but no, they hadn’t gone there at all, he knew the spot, they had been there that morning to look it over. No, they had gone in further along the coast and picked someone else up, who he presumed was a friend of the Prince’s.

Had he seen the person? Well, no, it had been dark and the person had been muffled up.

Had it been a woman, asked Felicity?

Woman? No, said the captain, surprised. The suggestion, though, had put other romantic, or, possibly, less romantic ideas in his head and Felicity had been obliged to speak about her warlike military husband and beat a retreat.

The captain had later gone ashore and disappeared into the Dolmabahce Palace. The moment he had gone, the crew had abandoned its polishing and gone ashore too, to sit upon bollards in the shade and commune with the sea in the way usual among sailors. Felicity had seized the chance to return, apparently casually, and check one or two points in the captain’s story.

In particular, she had asked them about the earlier voyage, the one in the morning.

To the Dardanelles twice in one day? That was a bit much, wasn’t it?

It certainly was. True, they got paid for it, but not enough, and in their opinion there was more to life than pretty uniforms. However, the Prince had insisted on it, had, indeed, come himself, although he had stayed in the cabin – there was, as you might expect, a small but luxurious cabin on this felucca – and in the shade and not come out until they had reached the bay where they were to set the passenger down.

Just a minute: which bay was this? The one they returned to in the afternoon?

No, no, that hadn’t been a bay. Just a point, really. And it had been on the other side, the Sestos side. All rocks, and as hot as hell. And why the Prince should have chosen to tie up there and spend all afternoon . . . Not to mention going off into the desert and getting his hair cut . . .

No, no, this was on the other side, the Abidé side.

‘Where the Effendi was supposed to be swimming to,’ put in one of the other members of the crew helpfully. He had heard the Prince say that to the captain.

And, just a minute, they had put someone down there?

‘That’s right.’

One of the crew?

No, no, a passenger. They hadn’t known he had been there. He had stayed in the cabin all the time with the Prince. He had come out only when they had actually moored and they had taken him ashore in the dinghy.

Had they seen him? What sort of person was he?

‘Well . . .’

A woman?

Guffaws.

‘Listen, if it had been a woman, Selim wouldn’t have been putting her ashore, I can tell you!’

It had been a man, and obviously a friend of Selim’s. The Prince had stood there watching him land and then had carried on watching him, though binoculars, until he had disappeared into the cliffs.

And then?

Well, then they had bloody sailed home again, and the moment they got there had turned round and sailed straight back up to the Dardanelles once more, only this time with Cunningham and the crazy old boatman aboard.

Just one other thing: when they were sailing home again, at the end of it all, they had put in again, hadn’t they, and picked someone up?

They certainly had.

Had that person been the passenger they had put ashore earlier in the morning?

Yes/no/couldn’t see. It had been dark. The person had shone a lamp from the shore. They had been under lamps, too, by this time. Pitch black, it had been. They hadn’t really seen the person who had come aboard. Nor had they seen him when he had got off at Istanbul. He had left with the Prince and they had had their heads down because the Prince had told them to get on with it and move their asses.

‘Was that what you wanted me to find out?’ finished Felicity. ‘It doesn’t sound very much –’

‘It will do fine,’ said Seymour.

Oh, said Felicity, and she had received three proposals of marriage and one which was almost certainly not for marriage.

Back at the Embassy later that afternoon, sitting in the room that had been assigned him, Seymour had been aware of a certain commotion at the end of the corridor. Some time later Ponsonby stuck his head round the door.

‘I say, old man, would you mind coming to see the Boss? He’s got a bit of a problem.’

Even before he entered the room Seymour could guess the nature of the problem.

‘I’m a British national, aren’t I?’ said Nicole. ‘He can’t do nuffink to me!’

‘Well, yes,’ said the Ambassador, ‘that’s true. Up to a point.’

Nicole regarded him suspiciously.

‘I knew there’d be a catch in it,’ she said.

‘You are obliged to co-operate.’

‘I am co-operating, aren’t I? ’E’s been round all day asking bloody questions and I answer them, don’t I? And the last time ’e came, I offered ’im a cup of tea. Isn’t that co-operating?’

‘Well, it depends how much you tell him. And how readily.’

‘I ’aven’t got anyfink else
to
tell ’im. ’E’s wormed it all out of me.’

‘Who is this?’ asked Seymour.

‘Mukhtar,’ said Ponsonby.

‘And what have you told him?’

‘What ’e asked me. About Babikr. That saz player. ’Ow well did ’e know Lalagé? ’Ow well did
I
know ’im? “Look,” I said, “I felt sorry for ’im. That’s all.” But ’e went on and on.

‘’Ad ’e been round to the flat? “Look,” I said, “we’re a troupe. Everyone comes round. Sometimes you want to get away when you’ve been rehearsing ’ard. You’re given ten minutes’ break. Well, where do you go? In ten minutes you can’t go far. And our place is ’andy. So, yes, people come round: Monique, and Raoul, and Gilbert, and even that little prick, Ahmet. And the band, too, because they rehearse with us. Farraj, and ’Ussein, and bloody ’Assan, who’s getting very fed up with all this. So, yes, Babikr, too, although not much, because ’e was so shy and didn’t get on with the others.”

‘And what was ’is relation to Lalagé? “Bloody dirt,” I says. “She looked on ’im as bloody dirt.” Brushed ’im off, ’e said? “She never brushed ’im on,” I told ’im. “Didn’t even see ’e was there.” Was ’e upset by that? Was there antagonism between them? “Upset?” I said. “Listen, ’e was upset by everything. Antagonism? Look, ’e was as quiet as a mouse. There was nuffink to ’im.”

‘But he was a member of the band, wasn’t ’e? “The band didn’t think so,” I said. But ’e worked in the theatre? “Well, of course ’e did!” So ’e would ’ave known about the dressing rooms? “What?” I said. ’E would ’ave known about the dressing rooms. Been up there, perhaps? “Listen,” I said, “the dressing rooms are for people who
dress
. Actors only, see. And make-up people. You don’t ’ave band going up there. Christ, it’s not a bloody thoroughfare. We undress, too, you know.”

‘All right, but ’e would ’ave known where they were, wouldn’t ’e? And – and ’e looks at me very sharp – ’e would ’ave known
when
she was there, wouldn’t ’e? Presumably, you’ve got a rehearsal programme?

‘“Programme?” I said. “With Rudi? You’ve got to be joking!” Yes, but ’e would be able to work it out, wouldn’t ’e? ’E would know when you were all onstage, and when she was off it? “Work it out?” I said. “Babikr? That poor bastard couldn’t work out if ’e ’ad ’is trousers on!” But ’e must ’ave known when ’e wouldn’t be playing . . .

‘And on and on. All day! It’s been bloody terrible down there today, I can tell you. ’E’s ’ad everybody in and gone round and round twice. And then ’e picked on me! And that’s what I’ve come to see you about. It’s bloody ’arassment it is. And I’m a British national, and I’ve got my rights –’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the Ambassador wearily.

‘So what are you going to do about it?’ asked Nicole suddenly.

‘Do about it?’

‘I mean, you’ve got to do somefink about it now, ’aven’t you? Now I’ve made a complaint.’

‘Well, yes. I suppose so –’

‘Otherwise your bosses back in London will be up your ass, won’t they?’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking –’

‘Is this a formal complaint?’ asked Ponsonby.

‘What?’

‘A formal complaint.’

‘Well, I suppose so.’