An Evil Eye (31 page)
P
ALEWSKI stood in front of the fire, rubbing his hands together.
“The trouble with the pasha, Yashim, is that he has no manners. I rather noticed it the first time he visited us.”
“Manners?”
“A word of thanks, I’d have thought. Well, well.” He put two glasses on the mantelpiece and poured the brandy. “The little girl goes back to her father, in Egypt. Tülin gets her just deserts, thanks to the valide. The English have begun negotiations to return the fleet to Istanbul, too. It’s only a beginning, but I rather think the Ottoman Empire has found the outside help it needed.”
Yashim nodded.
“And Mickiewicz wrote from Paris, to approve the first few pages of my translation.”
“I’m very pleased,” Yashim said.
“You don’t seem awfully pleased.” Palewski set the brandy on the sideboard. “Go on, what is it?”
Yashim sighed. “The only people who could have known about Fevzi Ahmet’s daughter were Hyacinth, who took her into the harem, and Tülin, who recognized her there. Galytsin had set up an elaborate method for receiving Tülin’s reports—but apparently she never filed one. She broke off communications with him at the very moment she discovered that Roxelana was still alive. So how did the Russians know?” Yashim glanced up at his friend. “Or more precisely, who told Galytsin’s agent about Roxelana?”
Palewski frowned. “Don’t tell me you think it was Hyacinth?”
“A quiet old man who scarcely left the harem in his life? Hyacinth was loyal.”
“Impasse, Yashim.” Palewski sighed.
But Yashim shook his head. “Unless Tülin did file her report. Not to Galytsin, but to someone else.”
“Who?”
Yashim patted his fingertips together, concentrating. He remembered Tülin playing her flute as he descended the stairs, and how the music had nagged at him. Not only because it seemed so dismissive—there had been something else, some idea at the back of his mind that had failed to emerge.
“When I asked Galytsin why Pervyal had been so cheap, he said that was a question Fevzi Ahmet should have asked.”
“What does that mean?”
“At the time, he meant to say that Pervyal was a witch. The dealers couldn’t wait to get rid of her. But there’s another explanation. We know that the Russians fixed it up so that Tülin could enter the sultan’s harem. What if it wasn’t the first time? What if her entry into Fevzi Ahmet’s household was a setup, too?”
“Arranged by the Russians?”
“Not necessarily. After the fire, Galytsin couldn’t believe his luck when Pervyal—Tülin—turned up on his doorstep. He should have realized that it
was
too good to be true. The whole event was cleverly fixed so that even if someone suspected her—and why should they?—the trail would lead to the Russians.”
Palewski looked interested. “I can take a lot of this,” he said. “Misleading the Russians.”
Yashim went on: “Inside, by a stroke of fate, Tülin became the valide’s handmaiden.”
“Which allowed her to steer clear of Roxelana.”
Yashim studied his friend absently. “Yes. But it also meant that she wasn’t sent away with the other women when Sultan Mahmut died. She stayed with the valide, while the harems changed over.”
“You mean that whoever put her there knew the sultan was about to die?”
Yashim nodded.
Palewski said: “Who?”
“You keep asking me,” Yashim said. “But you already know. Who would want a spy in Fevzi Ahmet’s house? Who would be most threatened by Fevzi Ahmet’s promotion to three horsetails—so much so that he would get Tülin to burn his house to the ground?”
Palewski shook his head. “I don’t see—”
“You do! You do!” Yashim was excited now. “It was you who pointed it out in the first place. You said he needed a crisis, to stay in power.”
“Husrev Pasha? The grand vizier?”
“Husrev Pasha was always afraid of Fevzi Ahmet,” Yashim said. “And terrified of losing power. He needed access to the valide, to the sultan, everything. Once Abdülmecid came to the throne, he and Tülin saw their chance. They planned to let her reach the sultan’s bed.”
“So he and Tülin worked together?”
“She was a Bosniac—like Husrev Pasha. They both come from Bosnia.”
“You mean Husrev Pasha told the Russians about Roxelana? Granted he wants power, hates Fevzi Pasha, all that—but why would he tell the Russians anything?”
Yashim hunched forward. “Not the Russians, Palewski. Just one Russian. One Russian greedy and gullible enough to think that he could use the information for his own, private ends.”
Palewski raised an eyebrow.
“At the outset of this … investigation, I made two guesses. The first, that Fevzi Ahmet murdered the man in the well. The second that the man in the well—let’s call him Boris—was working for Galytsin.”
Palewski shrugged. “The
Totenkopf
, Yashim. My contribution.”
“And a very good one—only it misled me. Boris was blackmailing Fevzi Ahmet because he knew his daughter was alive. He knew where she was, too. But Fevzi Ahmet didn’t kill him. He maybe a monster but he’s not so stupid that he’d drop a body where it was bound to be discovered.”
“Who did?”
“Galytsin. Not personally. He sent his thugs—who are not reliable. Later, when the body was recovered, Galytsin was at pains to get the branded piece of skin, which could identify the man. First the little man on the ferry, then the invitation to take a carriage—an abduction, in effect.”
“But—you went to see him, later that morning.”
“Yes—but it was too late to have me disappear. I’d spoken to the grand vizier. And anyway, I gave him what he wanted.”
“But why would Galytsin want … Boris killed?”
“He had him killed because the man was working privately, on his own account. He was using information to blackmail Fevzi, instead of sharing it with his nominal employer.”
Palewski whistled through his teeth. “Is that why you let Fevzi Ahmet go?”
“Partly that. Partly because his treason is more complicated than it looks. He defected because he knew his career was finished once Husrev had taken power. But also because he had to get away, and save his little girl. Egypt is the safest place for her.”
Palewski stood up and went to the windows. “Why did Husrev tell Boris about the girl?”
“I think he had two reasons. First, he wanted to cultivate Boris himself—to provide himself with a friend on the other side. Also, to terrify Fevzi.”
He stared for a long time into the dark.
“If anything you’ve told me is true, Yashim, I hope you plan to keep it to yourself. That little gap, after all.”
Yashim gave a curious smile. “You surprise me.” He stared at his friend’s back. “If I keep quiet, we’ll never know for sure.”
Palewski turned around. “You’ll be dead, Yashim.”
Yashim nodded. He thought of the Ceremony of the Birth: the dying child, the mother’s grief. He thought of how he stood apart from the central mystery of life.
“That wouldn’t be so terrible either, in the scheme of things,” he said. “Fevzi Pasha gave me a way to serve—all that.” He waved a hand. “The sultan. The empire. Its people, too, I hope. It’s what I do.”
He smiled again, remembering Kadri on the banks of the Golden Horn.
“It’s the only thing that makes any sense of my own life,” he added. “And in the end, it isn’t about people, or sultans, or corruption. It’s about the truth. The little gap, in this case, is for me.”
Palewski looked at him without speaking. Then he gave an imperceptible bow.
“Of course, Yashim.” Tears stood in his eyes. “Forgive me. I was only thinking selfishly.”
Yashim took his hand in his.
“Truth is the only protection we have,” he said. He glanced at the dark windows. “Husrev always works late.”
“Now?”
“Now is as good a time as any.”
Palewski accompanied him to the front door.
“Be careful, my old friend.”
Yashim nodded, and went out into the dark.
“
Y
ASHIM?”
The old pasha raised his eyes to the door, but the shadow was deep, and his eyes were ruined by years of scrutinizing papers.
“Yashim? Is that you?”
A figure stepped into the lamplight.
“Who are you?” The pasha was not afraid. Not yet. “What do you want?”
Whatever he expected, it was not that voice.
“You won’t remember me, Husrev Janovic. Why should you?” The stranger used the language of Husrev’s youth; the language of the mountains of Bosnia. “I saw you when you came to our village. Your village.”
Husrev’s hand moved slowly toward the little bell. “Our village?”
“Polje, Husrev. The family home.”
“You want money?” Husrev Pasha growled. “Or work? Why are you here?”
The man stepped closer. “I want vengeance, for the girl you stole.”
Husrev Pasha blinked hurriedly. “Girl? What girl?”
“Janetta. The woman you stole to be a sailor’s whore.”
“Janetta—?” The grand vizier frowned.
“My wife.”
Husrev’s yellow eyes flickered to the shadow that stood before him. “She will become a queen,” he said, slowly. “You are—what? A shepherd? What can you give that woman now?”
The man hesitated. Husrev Pasha’s hand closed around the bell.
“My wife is dead. She died. In a fire at the sailor’s house.”
“No, no.” Husrev Pasha lifted the bell and shook it.
The peal startled the man.
He saw his journey coming to nothing. His vengeance unappeased.
But he was swift with a knife. He had always been good with the knife.
Husrev Pasha caught the spark of metal in the light.
The man with the knife knew how to kill.
A weight caught him below the knees. He was a big man and he fell back, seeing the ceiling spin, and the raised knife in his hand—and then the room was full of voices.
He let the knife drop.
He could not remember if he had killed the pasha or not. He thought, after all his trouble, that he would feel something. Elation, or satisfaction. Even disappointment. Instead, he felt only very tired.
“
A
long time ago, when I was a boy, there was a man in the village who had the evil eye. He was not a bad man, Yashim. He was a good man. But bad luck attended him, everywhere. Cattle became sick when he looked them over. Women dropped things as he went by.” Husrev shrugged. “He stopped going to the church, because twice his presence made an icon fall. He carried bad luck with him. But you—you are lucky.”
Yashim rubbed his chin and contemplated the grand vizier.
“Perhaps it’s you who has the luck, Husrev Pasha,” he said. He had expected to find the vizier alone. Instead, he had heard the peal of the bell, and had hurled himself upon the deranged man. Now that the assassin had been taken away, the room was still. Husrev Pasha, he noticed, remained seated on the divan, just as he had been when the killer drew his knife.
“Tülin is dead,” Yashim said.
The heavy lids sank. “Tülin is dead,” Husrev repeated. He worked his jaw. “But I am the grand vizier.”
The silence hissed in Yashim’s ears.
“Tell me, Yashim. In the harem is a little girl—”
“Roxelana.”
“She is—well?”
“She is well. But not in the harem anymore.”
“Not?”
“Roxelana is on her way to Egypt.”
Husrev’s eyes were the color of old parchment.
“You will be making a report?”
“No. No, I will not be making a report. You have enough paper as it is.”
Something approaching a smile moved on the pasha’s lips.
“You are good, Yashim efendi. Thank you.”
P
REEN took Kadri’s chin in her hand.
“What was it, darling? Theater life too dull?”
Kadri smiled, and ducked away. “Too exciting, maybe.”
“I was about to teach you to juggle,” Preen said, with mock reproach. “Juggling’s another whole two kurus a week.”
“I’m going to try it on my own,” Kadri said. “Will you give me a job when I’m finished at school?”
Preen waved a hand. “Oh, you’ll be on your way by then. Grand vizier by thirty.”
They both glanced at Yashim, who stood at a discreet distance pretending to read a playbill tacked to the wall, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Not my idea,” he announced, without turning. “The Great Kadri! The India Rubber Man!” He swept his hand across the playbill. “Dropped from a roof! Fired from a cannon! It’s safer than politics,” he added.
As they were leaving, he took Preen by the hand.
“That party,” he said. “Where you saw Fevzi Pasha—and the girl.”
“Hmm?”
“Husrev Pasha wasn’t there, too, by any chance?”
Preen frowned. “As a matter of fact—why do you ask?”
“I just wonder—I don’t know. Perhaps we all had Fevzi Pasha slightly wrong.”
“Wrong? The man’s a monster, Yashim.”
“Of course. Of course. I know that.”
She gave him a curious look. “You’re not going soft on him now, darling? I don’t know what it is about you and that man—if he’s not the devil, he’s got to be an angel. But that’s not the way it works.”
Yashim nodded. “I know. I met him—” He shrugged. “I suppose it was an impressionable age. Kadri’s got you, luckily.”
“Kadri, Yashim, is not a fool.” She smiled. “Go on. Take him back to the school.”
“
I
T’S too extraordinary,” the valide said. “I put the whole thing down to that wretched Kislar aga. The one you recommended, Yashim.”
Yashim shifted uncomfortably on the divan.
“Ibou was hardly to blame,” he said. “The dealer tricked him. Perhaps even the dealer didn’t know.”
“Pouf! A dealer always knows. It’s his business, Yashim. Like horses, like girls. She must have had a crooked pedigree. I never much liked her myself. Valide this, valide that. And desperate to get to Besiktas, of course. I saw that straightaway. But I enjoyed her magic. It reminded me of Martinique.”
“Martinique?”
“Where I grew up. Chickens. Trances. We called it voodoo. Brought back happy memories.”
“She denied you water,” he said. “She pushed Hyacinth over the parapet, too. It wasn’t magic.”
The valide waved a hand, and her bangles chinked.
“It’s always magic, if you want.” She shrugged. “Talfa believes in it. So did the girl you brought here—Melda. What happened to her friend?”
“Elif believed she was pregnant,” Yashim said. “She thought Donizetti Pasha had given her a baby.”
The valide clapped her hands together. “That’s it, Yashim.” Her face was serious. “He is round, like a mushroom—but she was very young. He twirled a mustache. He caught her eye.”
“Tülin gave her something,” Yashim said. “A potion.”
The valide shivered. “It was very cruel,” she said.
“Melda believed it, too. She believed she had a secret that was too dangerous to reveal.”
“Tsk, tsk.” The valide shook her head. “These girls from Circassia! It is the mountains, Yashim. It makes them stubborn, and leaves them ignorant.”
“And this—” Yashim gestured at the walls. “This harem …”
“Encourages them to be silly, too. I know it, Yashim. Almost alone of all the women who come here, I have the benefit of an education.
Ne t’en souviens-tu pas?
Between you and me, Yashim, it’s like catching snowflakes. They have desires, hopes, plans, secrets. And they wear them on their faces, like
maquillage
.”
“And die, as a result?”
“Of course. Death is a secret, like any other.”
She touched a hand to her cheek, and smoothed it back.
“Tell me, Yashim, what did you make of our friend Monsieur Gautier?”
“‘Everything that is beautiful is useless,’”
Yashim quoted. “It seemed insincere.”
“Very silly,” the valide agreed. “It could have been written by one of our girls.”
“If any of them knew how to write,” Yashim pointed out.
“Or understood French, Yashim.”