An Evil Eye (8 page)
A
S the caïque turned up against the sluggish current, Palewski leaned back on the hard cushions and stared at the footings of the new bridge.
For centuries, people had talked about throwing a bridge across the Golden Horn. On the Stamboul side lay the bazaars, the palaces, and the temples of faith; on the Pera side lived the foreign community, now a mixed bag of Italians and Levantines, who operated so many of the commercial enterprises of the empire. The great Byzantine emperor Justinian, who gave his city the incomparable Ayasofya, was supposed, by some, to have strung a chain of boats across the waterway. If he had done so, only the idea of the chain had survived: medieval Constantinople had protected itself from attack on the seaward side by hauling a massive chain, whose links weighed fifty pounds apiece, across the mouth of the Horn. In 1453, when the city fell to the Ottoman Turks, Mehmet II had dragged his ships over land to get around it.
Fifty years later, the renaissance master Leonardo da Vinci had submitted a design for a bridge shaped like a curving bow, or a crescent; the sketch was put on file and forgotten. Three centuries passed. Then the late sultan—proponent of change everywhere in the empire—entrusted the project to his favorite, the Kapudan pasha Fevzi Ahmet, commander of the fleet. A man who had a reputation for getting things done.
Palewski sighed. Where the great plane tree that shaded the shoreline on the Pera side had stood, the ground looked dusty and hard-baked. The pasha’s bridge would be as ugly and practical as any of the new buildings that had disfigured the old city in the past twenty years—the commercial houses of Pera, the blank barracks of the New Troop on Üsküdar, the sultan’s hideous new palace at Besiktas. Worst of all, he thought, it would dissolve the ancient distinction between Stamboul, with its palaces and domes and bazaars, and modern, commercial Pera across the Horn.
It was growing dark when the caïque dropped him at the Balat stage. Palewski tipped the oarsman and made his way unhurriedly through the steep streets before stopping at a sunken doorway picked out in bands of red and white stone. The widow Matalya opened the door and Palewski removed his hat.
“Gone out, efendi,” the old lady remarked. “Messengers back and forth, and I don’t know what. Would you like to wait?”
Palewski agreed, and went on up to Yashim’s apartment carrying his old portmanteau, stuffed with a shawl. Wrapped in the shawl was an excellent brandy—1821—which the French ambassador had once given him, though Palewski had forgotten why. He sat on the divan while the familiar outlines of the flat bled into darkness; just before it became too dark to see, he stood up and fumbled with the lamp. In Yashim’s kitchen various plates and bowls were covered with muslins. The brazier was barely warm: he poked his finger into the coals, then wiped the soot off absently on his coattails. At last he found a piece of bread and a painted glass, and settled down to read Yashim’s latest Balzac.
At the beginning of chapter three he eased off his shoes and drew his feet up onto the divan.
T
HE great
oda
, overlooking the Bosphorus, emptied out. The orchestra packed up their instruments. The ladies of the harem drifted away. The children were shepherded off by the black eunuchs, still sniffling. It had been a very remarkable day; not an auspicious one. There was lots to discuss later.
Only the lady Talfa remained, with her slave.
“Bring me coffee.”
Yusel heaved herself to her feet and was about to waddle off when she raised her hands in surprise. “What have we here?”
On the carpet at the foot of the divan sat a little girl, fast asleep, with her head on her knees.
Yusel bent down and shook her gently. “Best run along now, little one.”
The girl saw Yusel bending over her and scrambled to her feet, looking blankly from Yusel to the lady Talfa.
Yusel mimed a low
temmena
, a bow with the hand almost trailing the ground. The girl took the hint. She presented Talfa with a graceful bow.
She looked about five years old.
“Very pretty, very nice,” Talfa murmured. The sad events of the afternoon had put her into a good mood. “And what, little one, is your name?”
“Roxelana, hanum.”
“Charming! And tell me, Roxelana, who looks after you?”
Roxelana glanced down and traced a pattern in the carpet with her little slippered foot. “No one, hanum.”
Talfa frowned. “No one? Where do you sleep?”
“I sleep—with the girls.” She slid her foot against her leg. “Wherever I am, hanum.”
“The Kislar aga knows about this? And Bezmialem?”
The little girl glanced up, biting her lip.
The princess let out an exasperated sigh. “It’s a muddle, that’s clear. Never mind, I’m glad we’ve had a little chat. I will see that something is done for you.”
Roxelana looked down at her slippers and stirred her foot on the dark flags. “You won’t send me away, hanum?”
“What a ridiculous notion!” Talfa giggled. “As long as you behave yourself, my dear, you’ll stay in the harem forever and ever. Now run along. You can visit me this evening, after prayers, and we’ll see what can be done.”
The little girl bowed again, and walked with self-conscious solemnity to the door of the
oda
.
At the door she turned and flashed a timid smile. “Thank you, my princess.”
Talfa waggled her fingers. A small smile hovered on her lips.
A
FTER the funeral the young man sold his sheep and the standing corn.
He thought long and hard about his inheritance, knowing the pasha would have to die.
It was not a question of rank. It was a matter of retribution.
A matter of honor. He had already chosen his weapon: it would be a knife. A knife because it was easy to conceal, and very sure. He had slaughtered many animals with this knife.
Istanbul was a long way off, of course. But he knew the roads the camels took, as far as the boundary of his province. There would be people after that, to show him the way.
No one would notice the knife.
“
B
ALZAC!” Palewski exclaimed, as Yashim came in. “Acceptable in small doses, with brandy. I thought you’d never come.”
“It’s Thursday,” Yashim objected. “I always come.”
“I know,” Palewski said, tossing the book aside. “You have nobody else to cook for.”
Yashim raised an eyebrow. “The Prophet, may he be praised, instructed the faithful to give charity,” he replied, turning to the kitchen. “Especially to the friendless.”
“Litwo! Ojczyzno moja! ty jeste
jak zdrowie,”
Palewski declaimed. “I am alone in a foreign land.”
While Yashim set out the dishes, Palewski grumbled about the new bridge. “Ghastly. I had hoped, with the Kapudan pasha away with the fleet, that work would grind to a halt. No such thing—it’s all modern methods now.” He picked up a slice of stuffed mackerel and held it in midair. “You look tired, Yashim.”
Yashim gave him a weary smile. “Husrev Pasha thought the Russians should know about their missing friend. The Fox was not very informative.”
“And the
Totenkopf
?”
“He barely reacted. Picked up the skin and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.”
“The Galytsins, Yashim, have lied for the tsar since the time of Ivan the Terrible. I once met a fellow who had been tutored in the Galytsin house. He said even their tutor told lies. Alexander Petrovich was a very good pupil, apparently.” He ate the mackerel dolma. “Why did Husrev decide to let them know?”
Yashim shrugged. “In the interest of neighborly relations. Better it came from us than from the little man on the ferry.”
“Hmm.” Palewski reached for another dolma. “A Russian murdered on the islands. Russian ambassador demanding explanations. A useful little crisis for the grand vizier.”
“Useful?”
“Dust in the sultan’s eyes, Yashim. Something to frighten him a bit. Husrev wants to show his mettle. You’d almost think that if this crisis hadn’t arisen, he’d have been tempted to invent it himself.”
Yashim shook his head. “The man had been in the water for weeks. Husrev Pasha couldn’t have known the sultan was about to die.”
“We all knew, Yashim.”
“Not to the day. Not to the week.”
Palewski sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Husrev’s no shrinking violet, but getting a Russian agent killed on the off chance? It’s too much.” He reached for another dolma. “And in the middle of nowhere, too.”
“Chalki?”
“It’s an island, for goodness’ sake. A place you go to escape the heat, or for Greek lovers to meet by prearranged chance.”
Yashim nodded. “That’s been bothering me. Chalki is only for monks and fishermen.” He picked up a cabbage leaf stuffed with pine nuts and rice. “I’d understand if a Russian military agent ended up dead in a Tophane backstreet. But Chalki’s a trap for the killer.”
“True.” Palewski pursed his lips. “Why not meet in the Belgrade woods—or in a quiet café up the Bosphorus?”
Yashim blinked. “Because Chalki was where they had to meet.”
Palewski looked perplexed. “Had to meet, Yash?”
“Obviously, yes, if the Russian came to meet someone who was on Chalki already.”
“One of the monks?”
Yashim wasn’t thinking of the monks.
His mind roved back to that afternoon on the rocks, among the Greek fishermen.
“Tomatoes!” Yashim slumped back into the chair. “The pasha’s mansion—that
konak
, among the trees.”
“The garden of forbidden fruit? The fisherman said it was empty.”
“That’s not quite what he said. He said the pasha had gone away.”
“He did, you’re right. What pasha?”
“The Kapudan pasha,” Yashim said slowly. “He took the fleet off, before the sultan died.”
The admiral of the Ottoman fleet was always known as the Kapudan pasha: the term was from
capitano
, borrowed—like so many other Ottoman nautical words—from the seafarers of Italy.
“The Kapudan pasha? Fevzi Ahmet, of the ghastly bridge?”
Yashim sank his head into his hands. “Fevzi Ahmet Pasha,” he murmured. “Commander of the fleet. I should have known.”
“Known what, Yash?”
“That he could do a thing like this.”
Palewski raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you knew him.”
“Oh, yes,” Yashim replied softly. “I knew him—very well.”
A
T the palace at Besiktas, the lady Talfa turned her head slightly in the mirror, and caught a glimpse of Elif, frowning.
“That will do, Yusel,” the lady Talfa said, waving her black slave away. She stared at Elif and Melda in the mirror for a few moments. “Your charge is a little girl. She is called Roxelana.”
“I am afraid, hanum, that will not be possible.”
Elif bowed her head as she spoke and kept her hands held humbly to her chest. Talfa couldn’t see her look of sleepy satisfaction, but she heard it in the sweetness of her voice.
“Have you forgotten who I am?” Talfa, too, could make her voice sound sweet.
“No, hanum efendi. I know who you are.”
“And you, Melda? It is Melda, isn’t it? You think it will not be possible, either?”
Melda half glanced sideways; her head, like Elif’s was bowed. “I—I don’t know, hanum efendi.”
“Well, isn’t that strange? Elif thinks it quite impossible, and you don’t know.” Talfa picked up a tiny cup and sipped the coffee. She set the cup down again, and swiveled on her stool. “The last time we met, you seemed so very sure of everything. Now, I think, we are beginning to learn, aren’t we?”
Elif cocked her chin. “We are orchestra girls, hanum efendi. Melda plays viola and the mandolin. I am first violin. Donizetti Pasha makes us practice for hours every day.”
Talfa touched her hair. “Do try to lighten your voice, my dear. For the sake of the sultan and his other ladies, if not your own. There are plenty of girls who have the harem voice, so I suggest you pay them a little more attention. Now,” she added, spreading her hands, “it’s lovely that you can play, of course. But I fail to see what your music has to do with the little girl.”
Elif compressed her lips, feeling the heat in her face. “We have our duties, Talfa hanum efendi,” she said. “To the sultan’s music.”
Talfa tilted her head and gave a silvery giggle. “I think you’ll find that playing an instrument is a privilege, my dear, not a duty. So it has always been considered in the harem. It passes the time, you see. Which leaves you, in effect, with no duties at all. You are a simple girl, but you must see that your sultan feeds and clothes you. Do you expect to give nothing in return?” She shook her head, smiling. “No, no. You will take charge of the little girl. You will teach her the ways of a harem lady, as best you can. It is by teaching that one learns oneself. She is a girl of rank, so you will behave very well with her.” She dipped her finger. “You will keep your eye on her, at all times. And I,” she added, “will keep an eye on you.”
She clapped her pudgy hands together, twice, before Elif or Melda had a chance to reply.
Yusel stepped in at the door, and bowed.
“Our guests are leaving,” Talfa said, waving a hand. “You may take the coffee away.”
The two girls backed out of the room, their heads lowered.
Outside the door, in the court, Melda avoided Elif’s eye.
“The bitch!” Elif hissed. “I’d like to kill her—and that little brat!”
She stamped her foot and balled her fists.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” she snarled, through gritted teeth. The tears stood in her eyes. “You’d best be my friend, Melda. Because I’ll do it, someday. Just you watch!”