Pascali's Island (18 page)

'Mannfeldt? Yes, they are the armaments people. Aircraft too I think, not the engines, the bodywork. They've got all sorts of interests. Very big people. Gesing would know more about them, I should think.'

'Yes, I'll ask him,' I said. 'I heard the name, you know, and I wondered. What about terra rossa? It came up in the same conversation.'

'Terra rossa? Red earth. No, you've got me there. Sounds like a name on some primitive kind of map. You know, like terra incognita or terra pericolosa. One of those maps the old explorers made.'

'Yes,' I said, 'it does sound like that, doesn't it? Oh well, it doesn't matter.'

I shook hands with them and thanked them. Maria gave me ajar of home-made tomato paste. She put it into my hands as I was leaving. 'Come again when you feel like it,' the doctor said. I have the feeling that I will never see them again.

I went down a little way along the earth road that descends from the house towards the town. But this road is winding and offers no shade, so I decided to take a more direct way, down the hillside, through the olive terraces. It was late afternoon now, hot and still. I caught glimpses of dark blue sea through rifts in the olive trees. Smell of marjoram, cistus, mint from the uncultivated slopes among the terraces. At first my own body was all the movement, all the noise there was. Then, within my own pauses, the interstices of movement, I became aware of the life around me, sudden soft impactive sounds among the dry grass edging the terraces, wings of small birds in the trees. Suddenly I looked down to a clearing, a good way below me, and saw a little group, two men and a boy standing together. The fleece of a sheep lay beside them. The sheep itself I saw last of all. It was skinned and strung up on a post or perhaps suspended from a branch. Forelegs tugged high by the rope, livid pink shape in the broken sunlight among the trees. In the last few moments before my line of vision was obscured, I saw one of the men cut downwards from the join of the animal's forelegs. I did not see the knife, only the long cut down, from forelegs to belly. A thick, dark red line followed the knife. I saw this one gesture in just this one moment, then passed on. It was as if it had been performed just for me. Blood, that darker line? No, the animal was dead, blooded already. Probably the darker inner flesh opening to the knife…

Down to the lower terraces, out on to the road again, and it was here that Izzet, accompanied by a big, silent, ragged man, were waiting for me, at the turn of the road, just before the first houses. They were waiting at the side of the road, in the shade of the large mulberry tree there. They stepped out into the road before me, forcing me to a stop. Neither of them said anything at first; and this silence, and the fact that they had waited so patiently for me there, frightened me badly. I tried to explain to Izzet, but he did not listen. They were not there to listen. We moved to the edge of the road and they stood close to me.

'We know you have seen him,' Izzet said. 'You were watched.'

'He wants two more days,' I said. 'In order to complete his researches.'

'He said nothing about his researches yesterday. It was he who fixed the time. He was in a great hurry then. Now he wants more time.'

'Please have patience,' I said. 'You know the Englishman is honest.'

'Honest?' Izzet smiled, very disagreeably. The ragged man smiled too, I think because he saw Izzet smiling. 'He has been seeing the American,' Izzet said. 'The American has a boat. Do you think we are fools?'

'No,' I said. 'Of course not. But you should not attach any importance to these meetings with the American. It is natural for foreigners, who speak the same language, to be on friendly terms.'

'Why only now?' Izzet said. 'Tell me that. You cannot. Basil Effendi, you are in great trouble.'

They were standing very near. The ragged man reeked unpleasantly. Their shadows were over me and over the reddish dust of the road: Izzet's quick and small, moving with his gestures; the ragged man's motionless. Beyond them the road was stained and sticky with fallen mulberries and flies were murmuring among them.

I said, 'I will speak to him. As for the boat, I am sure there is no connexion.' I attempted to move further down the road, but they moved to prevent me.

'You know Mahmoud Pasha,' Izzet said. 'He is not a patient man.' There was something more than threat in his voice, something almost confiding. It occurred to me then that Izzet too might be in some fear. He and I are similarly placed – acting for unpredictable principles, seeing our respective dreams fading. 'He has no chance,' he said. 'Tell him that. The soldiers are no longer on the site itself, but the approaches are watched, from above, from below. He has no chance at all.'

'I will tell him,' I said.

They moved aside at last, and I went on down the road, still clutching my jar of tomato paste. I was shaken by the encounter, Excellency. I feel a kind of half-incredulous horror now, when I recall it. Here in my room, among the accustomed things, it is difficult to believe that anyone, anything, could have such power over me. The table before me, the words on the page, the life they assume: is it possible that the expression on another man's face can prefigure the eclipse of all this? Even while my flesh shrinks with fear of the knife, my mind swells with arrogance. I am the spinner, the creator. I am at the centre of my inviolable world…

But why do they delay? Why do they deal so delicately with us? It is not the Vali's usual method. Are they so afraid of repercussions from the British Consul on Mytilene? Mytilene is far, Constantinople is even farther. By the time an investigation was ordered, they could have plundered the site, without witnesses. Then who is to say what was found and what wasn't? (There is nothing there, of course, but they do not know that.) Perhaps they are hoping to catch Mister Bowles in flagrante delicto, so they can proceed with an appearance of legality. No, this too could be easily fabricated. They must have some other reason for their unwillingness to risk an enquiry, something that Mister Bowles himself knows nothing about. My mind returns to that red quadrilateral on the map in Mahmoud's office. Odd that the doctor should mention maps. A primitive kind of map, he suggested, of the sort made by the old explorers. Or navigators, of course. What other people make maps like that? People who want to indicate where treasure is buried. We are back to Mister Bowles again. What possible connexion could there be with Mannfeldt? Besides, the phrase was not on the map at all, it was in the letter. Gesing would know, the doctor said. Yes, Gesing must be involved in it somewhere. The frequency of his visits, the deference with which he is treated. They are armament manufacturers. Perhaps Herr Gesing is acting for them, trying to get a contract to supply items of equipment to the Turkish army. But why here? That sort of contract is only to be obtained in Constantinople, through government channels. The letter came from Constantinople, of course…

The news from Constantinople worries me the more I think about it. It is not only the doctor who says that your throne is toppling; one hears the same thing on every hand. They say that you keep yourself locked away in your palace at Yildiz, for fear of assassins; that you never emerge, not even for the Friday visit to the mosque; that your troops in Macedonia and the northern provinces are openly in revolt and preparing to march on the capital; that you are without support except for your women and eunuchs, and the palace guard, who are themselves in arrears with their pay, and probably disaffected; in short, Excellency, that the whole edifice of your administration is about to collapse. Even there are rumours that you are already deposed, already dead.

I must not, will not, believe this, Excellency. I need so desperately the continued splendour of your existence. To whom, other than you, can I address my reports and my prayers, surrounded as I am by enemies, with no word of acknowledgement from your officials? You are my only hope. It makes no difference whether I send this report or not. It is your existence that matters. If you cease to exist now, Excellency, I am extinguished with you.

How well I remember your accession, though I was no more than a boy then. All day the streets were crowded with people waiting. They came from many parts to see you. The rich came in coaches, black eunuchs riding with drawn swords alongside. All day the people squatted in the street, waiting, smoking. When the sun rose and it grew hot the sellers of sherbet and melon did a great trade. My mother bought me lukumi wrapped in painted paper. I remember still the blue and red designs, the sweetness dissolving in my mouth, the thirst following. Everyone was happy. Then the soldiers marching through the streets, to take up their positions in the courtyard of the mosque, the Albanians in their plumed hats, the Spahis in silver and blue, the Bostangis most resplendent of all in scarlet and gold. You came to Eyub on a white horse, the green banner flying over your head, music playing, the people cheering. We could not get very near to the mosque, because of the crowd. But we waited there, as near as we could get. Then the voice of the imam, proclaiming your reign. Commander of the Faithful. God's Vice-Regent on earth. What expectations we had of you, Excellency.

I have decided to go up there, tomorrow morning. Up into the hills. I must find out what is happening. I made up my mind this evening in the café – I went to the café on the square, after my meeting with Izzet. The one that is opposite the hotel. I sat there an hour, watching the entrance, but he did not come. I knew he would not. I sat there, looking sometimes across at the entrance, sometimes down at my inert thighs in their crumpled white, my plump but delicate hands. As if looking for evidence of something – of my existence, perhaps. Nobody joined me at my table, but old Panos the waiter talked to me from time to time, and he smiled. He did not stay near me, but he spoke, on three occasions we exchanged words, and these interchanges made me more aware, not less, of the hush always around me these days. At the centre of this hush, there is my mind, noting things, framing words. Flowers on the stall, people passing, Yanni standing morosely in the evening sun at the hotel entrance – I can only make these things exist by naming them, interiorly mouthing the words. But why did Panos speak to me? We were never friends. Has he not heard the stories? Perhaps he is unswayed by them. Could it be that I am mistaken, deluded, that there is no feeling against me? Impossible, have I not seen it on their faces, do I not see it a hundred times a day? When I try to decide whether it is really so, try to recall precise events, expressions, my mind refuses, the hush in which I live takes on a quality of sibilance, a faint hiss, my head aches and I feel nausea. I cannot bear these uncertainties any longer, uncertainties about your existence and my own. I must go up to the site tomorrow.

It is afternoon, about the third hour. Light outside still, but my shutters closed, lamplight on the paper before me. The white sheets and my words on them clear in the soft light. I have a sensation of lightness, almost of floating – I am not heavy enough in my chair. Perhaps due to hunger. I have eaten very little today. Strange this lightness, this insufficiently anchored feeling, because my body should be tired, should be exhausted, after the exertions of the day. What could better illustrate the dualism of soul and body?

Excellency, I know now why he delays.

I left early, at sunrise, dressed as I had been on that earlier occasion when I watched them among the rocks. I am not used to walking, and progress was slow, once I had gone up from the shore into the foothills. The sun was high over the sea when I reached the side of the gorge, and fiercely hot on my back as I climbed. This gorge, narrow and very deep, lies at a right angle to the line of the shore. It rises higher on the far side, then tilts down in a long gradual line to form the promontory. The ruins that Mister Bowles is so interested in lie beyond this, on the reverse slope. To reach them from here it was necessary to work round the neck of the gorge through tangles of rock and scrub. I had calculated that this route would bring me out more or less directly above the ruins. If I proceeded cautiously I should be able to approach without attracting the attention of anyone already there.

It was intensely hot. The pulsing of the cicadas was almost intolerably loud, drowning all other sounds. Wavering clouds of tortoiseshell butterflies rose around me, disturbed from their feeding on the origen flowers. Already I was feeling exhausted. I was paying the penalty for years of sedentary living. My legs ached, I was perspiring freely. Thoughts of serpents and scorpions came unbidden to my mind. Once I stumbled and fell, bruising my shin. Nevertheless I persisted. I took off my jacket and slung it over my shoulder. I pushed back the headcloth from my sweating brow. The desire to have my uncertainties removed increased with every step. In fact, so totally was I prey to this ardour that my physical discomforts ceased to trouble me, rather they began to be welcomed as a sort of earnest of success. Suffering, too, is a kind of portent. (Let me take this opportunity of saying that I have always wished to suffer, all my life – though it is only recently that I have fully realised this. That is why Mehmet Bey found such a willing instrument in me: not because I wanted to betray, but because I wanted to suffer. That is why I became a writer of reports, Excellency. Otherwise why would I wrestle with words, go on wrestling, when every bout ends with me thudding to the canvas? Easier to stay down, make the submission sign. I see I have used the same word as Mister Bowles. Instrument. An odd word for him to use.)

With undimmed ardour, then, I worked my way round the side of the gorge to the long spur of the headland. Now I was in sight of the sea again, glimpsed its far blue through tangles of broom and holly oak. Below me I could see the beginnings of the ruins, traces of walls here and there, discernible as lines and angles rather than structures, signs of a human intention among the otherwise haphazard accumulations of nature. I paused at this point, and it was fortunate I did so, because in this pause I heard voices, higher up, to my right. Moving very slowly, and keeping well below the line of the spur, I made my way towards this sound, and after no more than a hundred metres I saw them, saw the drab olive of their uniforms, two soldiers sitting on a narrow level backed by rock, in the shade of a low pine tree. One sat against the rock, the other was further forward, looking out towards the sea. I could not see their faces clearly, but their heads were young-looking, close-cropped – they were not wearing their kepis. There is room there, as far as I could judge, for bedding and a fire. A good place for surveillance, because although they cannot overlook the actual site itself, they can watch all approaches to it from above, from the interior. I suspect that Mahmoud Pasha has posted at least two more men below the site, on the shoreward side.