The Janissary Tree (27 page)

"But
the Bayezit Tower," Palewski objected, "is modern. And that's exactly what I
mean. By the time it was built the Janissaries--and the Karagozi, too--were
already history. Really, Yash, this Janissary obsession is only getting in your
way."

"I
don't think so. I just discovered that the Bayezit Tower was built smack on top
of an old Karagozi tekke at the Eski Serai. So that makes three. What I'm
looking for now is another Karagozi tekke--and I don't even know where to
start."

Palewski
groped on the table beside him and produced a set of leather boards. Inside was
a single foolscap sheet of paper, folded in two, but loose.

He
opened the sheet and there, to Yashim's surprise, was a meticulously executed
bird's-eye view of Istanbul, in ink. Where the sky should have been, the air
was thick with names, notes, and numbers.

"You
were asking for a map. Last night, I remembered Ingiliz Mustafa," he said. "I
ransacked the place to find this."

"English
Mustafa?"

"He
was actually a Scotsman. Campbell. He came to Istanbul about sixty years ago,
to start a school of mathematics for the artillerymen. Became a Muslim, too."

"He's
still alive?"

Palewski
snorted. "No, no. I'm afraid even the practice of Islam couldn't do that for
him. One of his pet obsessions was the holiness of Istanbul-- how the city was
steeped in faith. I daresay he became a very good Muslim, but you can't easily
overcome a Scottish training in the sciences. This map shows all the mosques,
saintly tombs, dervish tekkes, and such that he could locate in the city. He
had it printed here, too."

He
dipped into the pocket of his dressing gown for a pair of reading glasses.

"Look,
every holy place in the city has a number. The key is up here. Fourteen: Camu
Sultan Mehmed. Mehmed's Mosque. Twenty-five: Turbe Hasan. The Tomb of Hasan.
Thirty, look, Tekke Karagozi. And another one. Here, too."

Yashim
shook his head in disbelief.

"Only
a foreigner would do something like this," he said. "I mean it's so--so--" He was
going to say pointless but thought better of it. "So unusual."

Palewski
grunted. "He wanted to show how his adopted faith was embedded in the very
fabric of the city. Plenty of Karagozi tekkes to choose from, too."

Yashim
peered at the map for a while. "Too many," he murmured. "Which is the right
one? Which is the fourth?"

Palewski
leaned back with his fingers over his eyes, thinking. "Didn't you tell me that
the three fire stations were also the oldest tekkes in the city? Isn't that
what the fire watchers said?"

Yashim's
mind began to race. Palewski continued: "Perhaps I'm just saying this because
I'm a Pole, and all Poles are at bottom antiquarians. This dressing gown, for
instance. You know why I wear it?"

"Because
it's cozy," said Yashim absently.

"Yes
and no. It's Sarmatian. Years ago, you see, we Poles believed that we were
connected to a half-mythical tribe of warriors who came from Sarmatia,
somewhere in central Asia. I suppose we didn't know properly where we came from
and went looking for pedigree, if you like. There was a rage for it, and the
supposed Sarmatian style--you know, silk and feathers and crimson leather. I
found this hanging in a wardrobe when I came here. It's a relic from another
age. That's what I like best about it. Every morning I envelop myself in
history. In the fancied glory of the past. Also it's jolly comfortable, as you
say.

"Well,
what makes me sit up is the thought that these tekkes are old, really old. Maybe
the first ever established in the city. That's your pedigree, if you like. That's
where your chaps might want to begin. Maybe the fourth tekke is also one of the
original lodges in the city. The first, or the fourth, whatever. So you need to
look for a tekke that's as old as the other three you know about."

Yashim
nodded. The four original tekkes. It fitted: it was what traditionalists would
want.

"Which
might explain something else that's been bothering me," he said aloud. "Not the
timing--that's the edict--but the number. Why four? If you're right, if someone
is going back to the beginning, trying to start over, then four's the obvious
number. Four is the number of strength, like the legs of a table. It's a
reflection of earthly order. Four corners of the earth. Four winds. Four
elements. Four is bedrock."

"And
it's going back, to the very origins of the whole Ottoman enterprise! Holy
war--and Istanbul as the very navel of the world."

Yashim
could hear the soup master explaining that the Janissaries had built the
empire: that they, under the guidance of the Karagozi babas, had won this city
for the faith.

"Whenever
things have gone wrong, people have stepped forward to explain that we've
simply deviated from the true old ways, that we should go back and try to be
what we were when the whole of Europe lay trembling at our feet."

"Well,"
said Palewski drily, "not the whole of Europe."

"Poland
excepted, the valiant foe," Yashim said generously.

A
look of doubt crossed his face. "But how do we work out which was the original,
fourth tekke? Your map here doesn't give dates, even if anyone knew them."

Palewski
bit his nails.

"If
we had an older map," he said slowly, "a really good one, to cross-reference
with this one. Most of these tekkes, after all, wouldn't exist. You might get
somewhere by a process of elimination."

He
rubbed his palms together.

"It
would have to be a very good map," he mused. Then he shook his head. "To be
honest, I'm not sure there's anything early enough for you. I certainly don't
have such a thing."

Yashim
set his jaw and stared into the fire.

"Does
the name Lorich mean anything to you?" he asked quietly. "Flensburg. Fifteen
something."

Palewski's
eyes widened.

"How
on earth, Yash? It's the most astonishing panorama of the city ever made. Or so
I've heard. I've never seen it, to be honest. There must have been several
copies but you won't find one here in Istanbul, that's for sure.

"An
astonishing panorama," Yashim echoed. "You're wrong, my friend. I think I know
just where to find it."

72

***********

HALF
an hour later, Yashim was standing in the portico of the Russian embassy,
toying with the irritating reflection that knowing was not altogether the same
thing as finding. He was only half a mile from Palewski's ambassadorial
residence and scarcely twenty yards from the map that he had seen hanging in
the gallery in the vestibule upstairs. But for all his ability to reach the
map, it might have been in Siberia.

The
ambassador, it appeared, was not at home. Yashim wondered if he kept Palewski's
hours: perhaps he was even now in bed with his luscious wife. The idea upset
him, and he asked to see the first secretary instead. But the first secretary
could not be contacted, either. It occurred to Yashim to ask to see the
ambassador's wife: but common sense, as well as an inherited notion of
propriety, ruled that out. Even Christian women didn't come to the door for
every man who knocked.

"Is
there anyone I can speak to? It's very urgent."

The
moment he heard the deliberate military tread, Yashim knew who could be found
to speak to him. The crippled hand. The ugly scar.

"Good
afternoon," Potemkin said. "Won't you come in?"

As
he followed the young diplomat into the great hall, his eyes flickered
automatically to the stairs.

"The
staff do not usually admit people without an appointment. I am sorry if you
have been waiting a long time. The ambassador and his staff have a heavy
workload today. His Excellency is expected at the palace tonight. I am afraid
it is impossible that they should be interrupted."

He
sounded nervous, on edge, Yashim thought.

"You
may be able to help me. The other day I saw an interesting map outside the
ambassador's office, which I'd like to look at again. I wonder--?"

Potemkin
looked puzzled. "A map?"

"Yes.
By Melchior Lorich. It is hanging in the vestibule upstairs."

"I
am sure His Excellency would be delighted to show it to you," Potemkin said,
more smoothly. "If you would care to put your request in writing, I will
personally see that it receives his attention."

"Now?"

Potemkin
managed a half smile. "I'm afraid that's impossible. Requests of this nature
take, what, a month or so to organize. Perhaps we can cut it down, though.
Shall we say three weeks?"

"I
know the map is just there, up the stairs. I'll disturb no one."

Potemkin
continued to smile and said nothing.

"Fifteen
minutes," Yashim said desperately.

"You
forget, monsieur, that this is a working embassy. It is neither a museum nor a
public gallery. But I am sure that His Excellency the Prince would be delighted
to consider your request--in good time. In the meantime, unless you have
anything else--?"

"I
don't suppose you have had a chance to look at the porter's accounts yet,"
Yashim observed sardonically.

"No,"
the attache agreed softly. "Not a chance. Allow me to show you out, monsieur."

73

***********

The
ambassador's wife, at that very moment, was being helped to undress by five
eager handmaidens, who took each garment as it was relinquished and examined it
with varying degrees of excitement and admiration.

The
valide's suggestion that she should bathe with the women of the sultan's harem,
coming on top of her offer of a puff on the narghile, had temporarily robbed
Eugenia of the power of speech. She was not easily nonplussed, but it had
occurred to her immediately that the sultan might take it into his head to
enjoy a bath himself. Alternatively, that he might choose to enjoy the
spectacle from a concealed lattice. Finally, she wondered if the valide was
simply teasing her.

"It's
quite all right," the valide said. "The sultan never uses the women's bath. The
girls would be delighted, but if you'd rather not..."

That's
two of my three concerns answered, at least, Eugenia thought. "I'd be charmed,"
she answered.

Minutes
later she was laughing as the girls examined her stays, pulling funny faces. One
girl puffed up her cheeks and blew. Another, to general merriment, mimed
turning a little lock with a key. With a shrug of her firm, creamy shoulders,
she demonstrated to Eugenia that Ottoman women enjoyed certain freedoms denied
their European cousins. But when Eugenia stepped out of her petticoat, they
stood back with what looked like sincere admiration for the effect--until they
caught sight of her pubic hair. At this, with equal sincerity, they simply
goggled in surprise. Then they helped her unlace and escorted her into the
bath.

Later,
Eugenia was to reflect on the difference between a Turkish bath and a Russian
one. On her father's estates outside Moscow she had often leaped from the
steamy log cabin to gasp with pleasure in the snow, while the bathing
attendants scrupulously beat her skin to a glow with a whippy bundle of birch
twigs. In the harem bath the pleasure was attained without the pain, such as it
was: the pleasure seemed infinite and curiously detailed. She was soaped, and
rubbed, and massaged, and it seemed that no part of her body escaped the
attentions of the girls, or of the stalwart woman who flexed her limbs, cracked
her neck, and even bent her fingers and toes. It was only through a massive
effort of will, which she afterward half regretted, that she conveyed her
opinion of the hot wax and a razor that the bath attendant automatically
produced. By the time she had bathed, and she was lounging naked on a sofa in
the room beyond, surrounded by other women smoking, sipping coffee, and
assessing their prize-- and all her clothes--Eugenia had no idea how much time
had passed. The chirruping of the women was very restful, and their birdlike
cadences mingled with the smell of applewood and tobacco to take her back, when
she closed her eyes, to a childhood in autumn, by a river far away, and not so
long ago.

She
was woken by a cool hand on her shoulder. Automatically she pushed herself
upright and found the kislar agha impassively staring down at her. Then he
nodded several times and showed his little teeth, making a gesture that she was
to rise.

She
got up slowly, smiling to her new friends. They smiled back, but fleetingly,
and helped her to dress. She climbed into her petticoat first, then wrapped her
corset around her front. One of the girls laced it at the back; she would have
preferred it tighter, but somehow the atmosphere of levity that would have let
her ask the girl to pull harder was missing now. She glanced to where the chief
black eunuch was standing by the door, his gaze flickering around the room. When
she was dressed, she tilted her chin and looked him lazily in the eye. He gave
a barely perceptible bow and opened the door.