The Snake Stone (2 page)

T
HAT
same morning, in the Fener district of Istanbul, Yashim woke in a slab of warm spring sunshine and sat up, drowsily rubbing his hands through his curls. After a few moments he cast aside his Korassian blanket and slid from the divan, dropping his feet automatically into a pair of gray leather baluches. He dressed quickly and went downstairs, through the low Byzantine doorway of the widow’s house, and out into the alley. A few turns took him to his favorite café on the Kara Davut, where the man at the stove gave him a nod and put a small copper saucepan on the fire.

Yashim settled himself on the divan facing the street, beneath the projecting upper windows. He slipped his feet under his robe, and with that gesture he became, in a sense, invisible.

It was partly the way Yashim still dressed. It was several years since the sultan had begun to encourage his subjects to adopt Western dress; the results were mixed. Many men had swapped their turbans for the scarlet fez, and their loose robes for trousers and the stambouline, a curiously high-necked, swallow-tailed jacket, but few of them wore European lace-up boots. Some of Yashim’s neighbors on the divan resembled black beetles, in bare feet; all elbows and pointy knees. In a long cloak, somewhere between deep red and brown, and a saffron-colored robe, Yashim might have been a ruck in the carpet that covered the divan; only his turban was dazzlingly white.

But Yashim’s invisibility was also a quality in the man—if man was the proper word. There was a stillness about him: a steadiness in the gaze of his gray eyes, a soft fluidity to his movements, or an easiness of gesture that seemed to deflect attention rather than attract it. People saw him—but they did not quite notice him, either; and it was this absence of hard edges, this peculiar withdrawal of challenge or threat, that comprised his essential talent and made him, even in nineteenth-century Istanbul, unique.

Yashim did not challenge the men who met him; or the women. With his kind face, gray eyes, dark curls barely touched, at forty, by the passage of the years, Yashim was a listener; a quiet questioner; and not entirely a man. Yashim was a eunuch.

He took his coffee propped up on one elbow, and ate the çörek, brushing the crumbs from his mustache.

Deciding against having a pipe with his coffee, he left a silver piastre on the tray and walked down the street toward the Grand Bazaar.

At the corner he turned and glanced back, just in time to see the café owner pick up the coin and bite it. Yashim sighed. Bad money was like poison in the bowels, an irritant that Istanbul could never rid itself of. He hefted his purse and heard the dry rustle of his fortune susurrate between his fingertips: this was one of those times when currency seemed to melt like sugar in the hand. But sugar was sweet. The sultan was dying, and there was bitterness in the air.

In the Street of the Booksellers, Yashim stopped outside a little shop belonging to Goulandris, who dealt in old books and curiosities; sometimes he stocked the French novels that Yashim found hard to resist.

Goulandris fixed his visitor with his one good eye and ground his teeth. Goulandris was not one of your forward, pushy Greeks; his job as a bookseller was to watch, not speak. One of his eyes was filmed with cataracts; but the other did the work of two, recording the way a customer moved, the speed with which he selected a certain book, the expression on his face as he opened it and began to read. Old books, new books, Greek books, Turkish books—and precious few of those—books in Armenian and Hebrew and even, now and then, in French: Dmitri Goulandris stocked them as and when they came to him, pell-mell. Books did not interest him. But how to price a book—that was another matter. And so, with his one good eye, he watched the signs.

But the eunuch—he was good. Very good. Goulandris saw a wellset gentleman in early middle age, his black hair faintly touched with gray beneath a small turban, wearing a soft cloak of an indeterminate color. Goulandris believed that he could penetrate any of the ruses that people used to throw him off the scent—the feigned indifference, the casual addition, the artfully contrived and wholly careless impulse. He listened to what they said. He watched the way their hands moved, and the flicker of their eyes. Only the damned eunuch remained a constant puzzle.

“Are you looking for a book?”

Yashim lifted his head from the page he was reading and looked around. For a moment he was puzzled; he had been far away with Benjamin Constant, a French writer whose single slim novella laid bare the agonies of love unfulfilled. Adjusting his gaze, Yashim found himself in the familiar cubbyhole in the Grand Bazaar, with the walls lined with books from floor to ceiling, the dim lamp and Goulandris himself, the bookseller, in a dirty gray fez, cross-legged on his stool behind a Frankish desk. Yashim smiled. He was not going to buy this book,
Adolphe
. He closed it softly and slid it back into its place on the shelf.

Yashim bowed, one hand to his chest. He liked this place, this little cave of books: you never knew what you might find. Goulandris, he suspected, had no idea himself: he doubted if he could do more than read and write in Greek. And today, hugger-mugger with the Frankish textbooks on ballistics, the old imperial scrolls bearing a sultan’s beautiful calligraphic tugra, the impenetrable Greek religious tracts, the smattering of French novels Yashim so enjoyed—there, bizarre as it was, a treasure that caught his eye. It had not been there last month. It might not be there the next.

Half smiling to himself, Yashim slid the book out; then he carefully reached up and took down
Adolphe
again. He hesitated a little over his third choice, choosing—at random—something French, all the while feeling Goulandris’s eye fixed firmly on his movements. Slightly too casually, he hoped, he slipped it to the bottom of the pile as he placed the books on the desk.

Goulandris sucked his lips. He did not haggle or offer arguments. He suggested prices. Yashim failed to suppress a flicker of disappointment as Goulandris solemnly priced the third book just a shade beyond his reach. Left with two, he put out a hand and picked up
Adolphe
. The bookseller glanced suspiciously from the book in Yashim’s hand to the book on the desk.

The book on the desk was fatter. It had more writing in it. But the thin book was in the eunuch’s hand.

“Twelve piastres,” Goulandris growled, placing a stubby finger on the book in front of him.

Yashim delved into his purse. He put
Adolphe
back on the shelf and, with a nod to the old man in his dirty fez, stepped out into the Street of the Booksellers, hugging to his chest volume 1 of Carême’s
L’Art de la Cuisine Française au 19 me Siècle.

At the bottom of the hill he turned toward the market.

Yashim saw the fishmonger staring stonily at his scales as he weighed out a bass for an elderly matriarch. Two men were haggling over a bunch of carrots. Bad money bred suspicion, Yashim thought. And then he smiled again, thinking of George at his vegetable stall. George always had good ideas for supper. George had no truck with suspicion. George was a cussed old Greek and he would simply growl and say the money was shit.

He looked ahead. George wasn’t there.

“He’s not coming in no more, efendi,” an Armenian grocer explained. “Some kind of accident’s what I heard.”

“Accident?” Yashim thought of the vegetable seller, with his big hands.

The grocer turned his head and spat. “They come up yesterday, said George wouldn’t be here no more. One of the Constantinedes brothers to get his pitch, they says.”

Yashim frowned. The Constantinedes brothers wore identical pencil mustaches and were forever on the move behind their piles of vegetables, like dancers. Yashim had always stuck with George.

“Efendi! What can we do for you today?” One of the brothers bent forward and began to arrange a pile of eggplants with quick flicks of his wrist. “Fasulye today at last year’s price! One day only!”

Yashim began to assemble his ingredients. Constantinedes weighed out two oka of potatoes and tumbled them into Yashim’s basket, replacing the scoop on the scales with a flourish.

“Four piastres, twenty—twenty—twenty—eighty-five the potatoes—five-oh-five—and anything else, efendi?”

“What’s happened to George?”

“Beans today—yesterday’s prices!”

“They say you’re going to take over his pitch.”

“Five-oh-five, efendi.”

“An oka of zucchinis, please.”

The man picked the zucchinis into his scoop.

“I heard he had an accident. How did it happen?”

“The zucchinis.” As Constantinedes tilted the scoop over Yashim’s basket, Yashim gripped it by the edge and gently raised it level again.

“I’m a friend of his. If he’s had an accident, I may be able to help.”

Constantinedes pursed his lips thoughtfully.

“I can ask the kadi,” Yashim said, and let go of the scoop. The kadi was the official who regulated the market. The zucchinis rained down into the basket. “Keep the change.”

The man hesitated, then scooped up the two coins without looking at them and dropped them into the canvas pouch at his waist.

“Five minutes,” he said quietly.

Y
ASHIM
stirred his coffee and waited for the grounds to settle. Constantinedes tilted the cup against his lips. “We all got a choice. We don’t want aggravation, see?”

“Yes. Is George all right?”

“Maybe. I don’t ask.”

“But you’ll take over his pitch.”

“Listen. This was between them and George. Keep us out of it. I’m talking to you because you was his friend.”

“Who are they, then?”

The man pushed his coffee away and stood up.

“A little piece of everything, that’s all.” He bent down to pick something off the ground and Yashim heard him whisper: “The Hetira. I’d leave it, efendi.”

He walked back to his stall, leaving Yashim staring at the shiny thick dregs in his coffee cup, wondering where he had heard that name before.

I
STANBUL
was a city in which everyone, from sultan to beggar, belonged somewhere—to a guild, a district, a family, a church or a mosque. Where they lived, the work they did, how they were paid, married, born, or buried, the friends they kept, the place they worshiped—all these things were arranged for them, so to speak, long before they ever balled their tiny fists and sucked in their first blast of Istanbul air, an air freighted with muezzins, the smell of the sea, the scent of cypresses, spices, and drains.

Newcomers—foreigners, especially—often complained that Istanbul life was a sequence of divisions: they noticed the harem arrangement of the houses, the blank street walls, the way tradesmen clung together in one street or a section of the bazaar. They frequently gave way to feelings of claustrophobia. Stambouliots, on the other hand, were used to the hugger-mugger atmosphere of warmth and gossip that surrounded them from the cradle and followed them to the grave. In the city of belonging, Yashim well knew, even the dead belonged somewhere.

He ran his thumb along the table’s edge. It occurred to him, not for the first time, that of all Istanbul he might be the exception which proved the rule. Sometimes he felt more like a ghost than a man; his invisibility hurt him. Even beggars had a guild that promised to provide their burial at the end. The ordinary eunuchs of the empire, who served as chaperones, escorts, guardians—they were all, in that sense, members of a family: many belonged to the greatest family of all, and lived and died in the sultan’s service. Yashim, for a spell, had served in the sultan’s palace, too; but his gifts were too broad to be comfortably contained there, between the women of the harem and the secrets of the sultan’s inner sanctum. So Yashim had chosen between freedom and belonging; and a grateful sultan had bestowed that freedom on him.

With freedom had come responsibilities, which Yashim worked hard to fulfill, but also loneliness. Neither his condition, nor his profession, such as it was, gave him the right to expect to see his own reflection in a pair of eyes. All he had were his friends.

George was a friend. But what did he know about George? He didn’t know where he lived. He didn’t know where he’d met his accident. But wherever he was, alive or dead, someone in the city knew. Even the dead belong somewhere.

“George? I never asked,” the Armenian stallholder said, scratching his head. “Yildiz? Dolmabahçe? Lives somewhere up the Bosphorus, I’m pretty sure—he walks up from the Eminönü wharf.”

One of the Eminönü boatmen, resting his athletic body on the upright oar of his fragile caïque, recognized George from Yashim’s description. He took him up the Bosphorus most evenings, he said. Two nights ago a party of Greeks had spilled out onto the wharf and asked to be rowed up the Horn toward Eyüp; he had dithered for a while because he had not wanted to miss his regular fare. He remembered, too, that it must have been after dark because the lamps were lit and he had noticed the braziers firing on the Pera shore, where the mussel-sellers were preparing their evening snacks.

Yashim offered him a tip, a pinch of silver, which the boatman palmed without a glance, politely suppressing a reflex that was second nature to most tradesmen in the city. Then Yashim retraced his steps toward the market, wondering if it was in one of these narrow streets that George had met with his accident.

The sound of falling water drew his attention. Through a doorway, higher than the level of the street, he caught a glimpse of a courtyard with squares of dazzling linen laid out to dry on a rosemary bush. He noticed the scalloped edge of a fountain. The door swung shut. But then Yashim knew where George might most likely be found.

Almost ten years after the sultan had told his people to dress alike, George stuck to the traditional blue, brimless cap and black slippers that defined him as a Greek. Once, when Yashim had asked him if he was going to adopt the fez, George had drawn himself up quite stiffly:

“What? You thinks I dresses for sultans and pashas all of my life? Pah! Like these zucchini flowers, I wears what I wears because I ams what I ams!”

Yashim had not asked him about it again; nor did George ever remark on Yashim’s turban. It had become like a secret sign between them, a source of silent satisfaction and mutual recognition, as between them and the others who ignored the fez and went on dressing as before.

The door on the street gave Yashim an idea. A church stood on the street parallel with the one he was strenuously climbing toward the market. A group of discreet buildings formed a complex around the church, where nuns lived in dormitories, ate in a refectory, and also ran a charitable dispensary and hospital for the incurably sick of their community. If his friend had been found on the street after his accident, it was to this door, without a shadow of doubt, that he would have been brought, thanks to his blue cap and his black Greek shoes.

But the door remained closed, in spite of his knocking; and in the church, when he finally reached it, he had to overcome the suspicions of a young Papa who was doubtless bred up in undying hatred for everything Yashim might represent: the conqueror’s turban, the ascendancy of the crescent in the Holy City of Orthodox Christianity, and the right of interference. But when at last he passed beyond the reredos and through the vestry door, he met an old nun who nodded and said that a Greek had been delivered to their door just two nights past.

“He is alive, by the will of God,” the nun said. “But he is very sick.”

The wardroom was bathed in a cool green light and smelled of olive oil soap. There were four wooden cots for invalids and a wide divan; all the cots were occupied. Yashim instinctively put his sleeve to his mouth, but the nun touched his arm and told him not to worry, there was no contagion in the ward.

George’s black slippers lay on the floor at the foot of his cot. His jaw and half his face were swathed in bandages, which continued down across his shoulders and around his barrel-shaped chest. One arm—his left—stuck out stiffly from the bedside, splinted and bound. His breathing sounded sticky. What Yashim could see of his face was nothing more than a swollen bruise, black and purple, and several dark clots where blood had dried around his wounds.

“He has taken a little soup,” the nun whispered. “That is good. He will not speak for many days.”

Yashim could hardly argue with her. Whoever had attacked his friend had done a thorough job. Their identity would remain a mystery, he thought, until George recovered enough to speak. The Hetira. What did it mean?

While the nun led him out through the tiny courtyard, Yashim told her what he knew about his friend. He left her with a purse of silver and the address of the café on Kara Davut where he could be found when George regained consciousness.

Only after the door had closed behind him did he think to warn her of the need for discretion, if not secrecy. But it was too late, and probably didn’t matter. For George, after all, the damage was already done.