An Evil Eye (18 page)
M
ELDA startled at the water. Through the black gauze of her burka the Bosphorus looked dull and menacing, speckled with white.
Perhaps the water was to be her grave.
She entertained few illusions. The
lala
who had asked her questions had said they were going somewhere safe. She had read the expression in his eyes and thought that it could have been reassurance: but then she was not sure what reassurance looked like anymore, or how to tell the real from the false.
What had happened to Elif was real. Evidently so: the blood was real blood, the agony unfeigned. And then Elif was dead.
Her secret killed her.
And she, Melda, shared the secret.
The
lala
gestured for her to seat herself. When he smiled, did he smile with his eyes, or only move the muscles around his mouth? It was hard to tell from behind the mask she wore.
The engine was terrible enough. Perhaps there were other engines that he had prepared. Other systems.
The caïque shot forward, over the gray water.
H
YACINTH padded softly across the polished stones, jangling his keys. Today he had started to wear his woolen slippers; he felt the cold. The valide had ordered the fires made up, and when he was called from his own snug cubicle he startled at the wind that blew down the Golden Road.
“Evet, evet,”
Hyacinth grumbled as he approached the little door.
Yashim, with a woman.
“Well, well,” he said, blinking up at them both. “Another mouth to feed?”
Yashim said quietly: “Another mouth, Hyacinth, if you want to put it like that.”
The woman stepped into the vestibule. The wind caught at her veil and she raised it with gloved hands, revealing a face Hyacinth could not recall.
The corners of his mouth turned down. “Coming, going, there’s nothing regular anymore, is there?” He peered at Melda more closely. “I don’t know you.”
She said nothing, so he added: “You don’t look well. Pretty and young, not like the rest of them here, perhaps. But not very well.”
“Melda needs rest, Hyacinth.”
“What does the valide say, Yashim efendi?”
“You needn’t trouble the valide, Hyacinth,” Yashim said firmly. “I’ll look in on her now. Anyway, it’s just for a short while.”
“I’ll put her in the old dormitory. Light the fire.” He took the girl by the arm. She flinched, but either he didn’t notice or he chose to ignore it. “Melda, is it? You’ll be all right. Old Hyacinth will see to that.”
He hefted the keys in his other hand. Yashim put his hand to his chest, and bowed.
D
OGS barked and pulled on their chains as the man approached the farm.
He fingered the knife in his satchel. He was very tired and had gone two days without food.
“I am very strong,” he said. “I can work.”
The farmer did not understand his words, but the man showed his biceps and he nodded. He was not inhospitable.
The man worked for him for two weeks. In return he received food and a place to rest.
One morning, he was gone.
“
S
O my grandson needs me after all.” The valide plucked at an invisible thread on her shawl. “I blame myself.”
“Valide?”
“My son preferred fat girls, Yashim. Imagined they lacked energy. So I picked out Bezmialem. A foolish prejudice of mine.” Her silver bangles tinkled on her arm. “I thought Bezmialem was stronger than she turned out to be. More intelligent.”
Yashim nodded in sympathy.
“She is merely thin,
au fond
.” The valide gave an expressive little shrug, as if to dismiss the whole affair. “One learns, Yashim. The new palace at Besiktas was, of course, Mahmut’s mistake,” she added. “I told him so.”
“You will find it—strange,” Yashim suggested.
“I am aware of that. Perhaps I should have gone before, but I am a stubborn woman.”
Yashim tried to imagine the valide at Besiktas, with its gauzy windows and chandeliers, its stiff upholstered chairs and yards and yards of open, empty space.
“I shall rely on you,” the valide continued. “And Tülin knows Besiktas quite well.
À cause de sa flute.
”
“You’re fond of her, valide.”
“Fortunately for you, she can’t read French.” The valide wagged her finger. “Tülin plays the flute with the other girls. The sultan’s orchestra. Very pretty. And it keeps them occupied. Here at Topkapi she sees an old woman and some superstitious eunuchs. I
am
thinking of her interests, as it happens. I do not wish her to be too much alone,” she added. “Isolation is dangerous in the harem, Yashim. A girl must have friends.”
Yashim smiled. “You told me once that a girl needs enemies.”
The valide shrugged. “Better an enemy than no one at all. To be regarded, that’s something. But to be truly alone—in here, at least—it’s a kind of death.”
“When you first came here, hanum, you must have been isolated.”
“I, Yashim? What a ridiculous idea.” Unconsciously she raised a hand to her hair. “The place was positively crowded, and I was a French girl, was I not?
Espèce de merveille!
And on the way—well, I had learned more than most of the Circassians. More Turkish, certainly.
“I shall leave in two weeks, inshallah. I will ask Tülin to find out which day would be propitious.” She caught his glance, and raised an eyebrow. “Not for my own sake, Yashim. I do it for the girls.”
“It may be just as well, hanum. There have been—well, some disturbing incidents in the harem.”
“Indeed. The Kislar aga has told me so.”
Yashim looked surprised. “He has spoken to you—about Elif?”
The valide put her fingers to her temples. “Elif, Fatima, Begum,” she intoned wearily. “Really, Yashim.”
“But Elif—” Yashim looked doubtful. “Melda. He told you about Melda?”
The valide frowned. “My son, the sultan, does what he likes.”
“Hanum?” Yashim shifted uneasily on the edge of the divan: it seemed to him that the valide’s mind was drifting toward the past.
“He does exactly what he likes.” The valide raised her chin and looked down her beautiful cheekbones. “He moves his court into that wretched palace of his. Everything French, he says.” Yashim nodded slowly, unable to halt the confusion in the valide’s words. She looked at him severely. “I don’t want people thinking I am to blame.
His
father never proposed such an absurd thing, wanted us to be comfortable. I had no intention of moving myself,
naturellement
. I am perfectly comfortable where I am.”
She spoke in clipped tones, not moving her head. When she had finished, she held the pose for a few seconds longer, and blinked rapidly, as though she had something in her eye.
“You have much to do, valide,” Yashim said quietly.
The valide turned to Yashim with the smile that had ravished a sultan. “You are very thoughtful, Yashim. I count you among my oldest and dearest friends. Thank you so much for coming.”
She held out her hand, tilted to one side, like a European.
Yashim stooped, and took it in his: her hand was very small, and mottled, and he felt the fragile bones beneath her skin where he raised it to his lips.
A
T the door he found Hyacinth. The old man looked gray.
“Is it true?”
“True?” Yashim echoed.
“Do you, too, think I am some kind of fool?” Hyacinth whispered with sudden fierceness. “That I sleep and eat and smile like a child?”
His long fingers clamped around Yashim’s arm. His hold was strong, and Yashim checked himself.
“It’s a suggestion, that she should go to Besiktas. I’m sorry,” he added. He had not thought of Hyacinth.
The old eunuch nodded, turning his head from side to side; his nostrils flared. “It was in the air, Yashim efendi.” He spread the fingers of one hand in Yashim’s face. “I felt it, here. The harem, I breathe. You understand? I watch its breath like a mother watches her child. Every breath. Every word. Each tiny glance. When they took the women—” His fingers tightened into a ball. “And now she goes.”
His eyes glittered, and his grip tightened on Yashim’s arm. “And will I go, or stay?”
Yashim bit his lip. The valide had spoken of her body slave, the girl—Tülin. “I don’t know, Hyacinth. I’m sorry. I wish I knew.”
“Ah.” Hyacinth let out a ragged sigh and closed his eyes. Without another word he released Yashim’s arm and turned, shaking his head. Yashim watched him shuffle away along the corridor, his slippers slapping on the polished cobbles.
Y
ASHIM followed the street that dropped from Ayasofya mosque to the shore of the Golden Horn. Beyond the mosque of the valide, past the entrance to the spice bazaar, the ancient walls disappeared into a warren of haphazard wharves and boatyards that had grown up around them after many centuries of peace. Here and there one could still glimpse a section of banded brick and stone, or crenellations that crumbled above a riot of roofs and makeshift staircases, as the old defenses were gradually absorbed into the fabric of the city. Beyond the walls, the water stirred listlessly against the muddy banks.
At the Prison Gate Yashim found a caïque and crossed the Horn. The new bridge was almost complete. In summer they had cut down the great plane tree that had given the people shade, because it stood in the way of the bridge.
Without its spreading branches to protect him, the wind was keener; the crossing chilled him. At the foot of the Galata steps he stopped for coffee, and sat cross-legged with his back to the brazier, looking out across the water. The weather had finally turned. A late Indian summer had ebbed away; the storks had flown south and already white crests ruffled the Bosphorus, whipped up by a wind that blew across the Black Sea from the steppes of Central Asia.
The Turks had come from the same place, centuries ago. Nomads, shepherds, horsemen: tent-dwelling tribesmen who worshipped stones and rivers, and met beneath the spreading branches of a tree to administer justice and settle their affairs. It would have been a tree, Yashim thought, much like the great plane that had drooped its branches over the Golden Horn, festooned with rags and prayers.
He half closed his eyes. That, of course, had been the purpose of the tree: in the minds of the people it was a link between heaven and earth, a conduit between earthly troubles and heavenly justice. It was not so much a belief as an instinct: justice belonged to the sky and the open air. Justice and fairness flourished in the open, from the
kadi
, who gave his verdict in an open court, to the Turkish tribal chief, who spoke to his people sitting around the trunk of a tree.
He stared, frowning, into his coffee. How times had changed! The spreading tree had been exchanged for the palace, and its harem, where everything was effectively invisible. Nobody knew, and nobody cared, who lived there, or how they lived—or died. In a world closed and enveloped in secrecy, justice withered like a pale shoot deprived of the sun.
Yashim slapped some silver on the table and strode from the café, his cloak billowing behind him; outside he turned his back on the water and began to mount the steps two by two, dodging the porters bent double under their enormous loads, the musical instrument sellers, the sherbet vendors, and the little Jewish boys who sold paper on every landing. All Pera seemed to teem on the steps, veiled women, priests in black, foreign sailors, businessmen in frock coats and fezzes, builders in turbans. Yashim kept his head down and moved fast, not drawing breath until he reached the rusted iron gates of the Polish residency.
Dry leaves swirled around his feet as he crossed the yard. He climbed the steps and let himself into the dim hall. From overhead he heard the distant sound of a fiddle. Picking his way carefully through the gloom he reached the stairs, where the treads creaked as he mounted toward the light that streamed through the landing window.
He paused there for a moment, leaning his forehead against the glass. Outside, Marta was on the grass, pegging clothes on a line. Farther off, beyond the yellowing leaves, Yashim could make out the cobbled coach yard where the widow Baxi still lived with her two children—just another of the myriad tiny and traditional arrangements that made up the city’s shape and population. He could even see the Baxi boy outside, under the pump, dangling a piece of string for a cat.
At the top of the stairs he went in, silently, and settled into a chair, relishing as ever the familiarity of these strange things: an armchair, a mantelpiece, a slender bottle of something pale and unlabeled on a mahogany side table.
Yashim lay back and listened to the notes that flowed from Palewski’s violin.
When the last notes had died away, Palewski laid the fiddle on the side table. “Chopin,” he said. “The Prelude in A Major.”
“It’s very beautiful.”
“It’s very short.”
He opened a cupboard. “
Palinka
. Hungarian schnapps. Keeps out the cold.”
“I’m quite happy with this fire,” Yashim said, stretching out his hands.
“Marta had it swept,” Palewski said. He poured the plum brandy into two glasses and set one down beside Yashim. “In case you change your mind,” he added. “What we really want here is a stove, of course. Can’t think why we didn’t put one in while we still had the money.”
Yashim knew that Palewski was referring to ancient history: it was many decades since any Polish ambassador had had money.
Palewski rubbed his hands. “Mediterranean people are like crickets,” he said. “You never believe it’ll get really cold. Your fireplaces—they’d disgrace a theater set. Flimsy, far too small. Not proper heating. And yet it snows almost every year.”
“And every year,” Yashim said, smiling, “you say the same thing.”
“If you go on saying and believing the same things for long enough, the world will eventually come around.” Palewski descended into the neighboring armchair and set his glass on his knee. “On the other hand, I have some curious news.”
Yashim picked up the glass Palewski had set beside him. “News?”
“What I hear—” Palewski paused. “I hear that the admiral Fevzi Pasha has disappeared.”
