'You understand nothing,' he repeated. 'I am simply an instrument.'
I did not pay much attention to this remark at the time, being too eager to drive home my advantage. But I remembered it afterwards, and his face saying it.
'At the moment,' I went on, 'time is working in your favour. Time and their greed and what they think of as your stupidity. They are obliged to gamble on your honesty – which I have helped you to establish. Any doubt of this and your scheme falls flat. And so do you. I want two hundred liras.'
He was silent for a full minute. He looked briefly round the room, then his eyes returned to my face, steadied there, as if he was aiming. I did riot like this look of his.
'Have you told anyone else?' he said. 'About finding the head, I mean.'
Fortunately I had anticipated this question. I had, in fact, learned from him. 'No,' I said, 'but I have left a written account of everything, from start to finish, in a sealed envelope, with forwarding instructions in the event of my disappearance or death.'
'I very much doubt it,' Mister Bowles said. 'Still… I'll give you a hundred. You are entitled to something, anyway.'
'A hundred and eighty,' I said, with relief – while bargaining one is safe. 'I won't take a piastre less.'
We argued for some time with that spurious intimacy, a kind of imitation friendship, which such negotiations induce. In the end I exacted a promise of one hundred and fifty liras, contingent of course on the deal with Mahmoud Pasha going through. I promised in my turn to act as intermediary with Izzet this evening, when he comes with the money. And so we parted, he to retire to his room, I to make my way back here.
One hundred and fifty liras! I can hardly believe it. I shall get some new clothes in Constantinople. A couple of silk shirts, a new suit. Then, suitably dressed, I can make my approaches to your officials. A new pair of spectacles too. My present ones do not suit my eyes, as I have explained, and besides the frame has been broken and repaired with wire, so they are unsightly in every sense. Once I have the money I can be on the next boat.
This report will be finished then, of course – my departure will bring it to a natural close. Mister Bowles too will be leaving, and the report has centred on him. This brings us to a very delicate juncture, Excellency. My whole situation has changed in the course of the last few hours, and our relationship, yours and mine, has changed with it. I have realised from the beginning that when you receive this report you will see that my usefulness is over. As an informer, on this island, I am finished. Moreover, in my rage for completeness, in my passion for your acknowledgement, I have revealed to you that on one level-though not the deepest – I have been falsifying my reports for many years. And now, by failing to report Mister Bowles, by turning the situation to my own advantage, I am compounding a felony. If these things became known to you, you would be displeased, you would have me arrested, all access to the archives would then be denied me.
I thought it didn't matter, you see. I thought my life was at an end. One final shape, as perfect as I could make it, wrought at the edge of the abyss, then my body toppling over. But everything is changed now, my life is opening up before me. Some small clerical post perhaps. My needs are few. The remaining years devoted to the collating and editing of my papers… You see how things are, Excellency, I cannot send you this report yet, if ever. For the moment I must simply shelve the question. Out of habit and piety I shall continue to address my words to you. And for the sake of unity of form, of course.
The smell of blood hangs over the island. On my way back I could smell it, thick and heavy in the midday heat. It seems to me that I can smell it still. Here and there blood-sodden patches on the roads. Below the market place a small group had gathered, among them children with round eyes. In their midst a sheep, mute, combed and dressed for death, horns gilded, fleece dyed red with henna. Twisted into the wool were amulets, ribbons, little coloured streamers of paper. She stood for the last time on her four legs, head down, exhausted with terror. I hurried past, to avoid the sight of the killing. But I was helpless to avoid the picturing of it, saw them force the beast over, kneel on her to keep her down, turn her dyed head to the east; saw the cut, and life-blood welling thickly out. Once the cut is made they die without a sound and without a struggle, eyes gently closing.
I was waiting for death like that sheep, until today. Red morocco and gilt lettering. Dedicated of course to you, Excellency.
He did not come. He was not in his room, either. Izzet and I were there punctually at seven, but no Mister Bowles. Izzet had the money in a cloth bag, all ready to hand over. We sat there for ten minutes, making uneasy conversation. Then Mardosian approached us and handed me a sealed envelope. Nothing on the cover. Inside a note for me, very brief, without salutation. 'Unavoidably detained,' he said. 'The troops are still on the site. Tell them I refuse to negotiate until these troops are removed. Tell them it is a matter of principle.' Small neat writing. His signature at the end. I looked up dazed from this to meet Izzet's peering gaze. 'He can't come,' I said.
'Why not?'
'He doesn't say. He refuses to go on with the agreement until the soldiers are removed from the site.'
'Allah, Allah,' Izzet said, raising his hands. 'What difference can that make now? He has nothing more to do on the site.'
'He says it is a matter of principle.'
'Principle?' Izzet rose abruptly. His face was bitter with rage. 'Shaitan take his principles,' he said. 'And him, and you. He is playing games with us.'
'I will see him,' I said. 'I will arrange another meeting.'
'I advise you to be quick, arkadeshim. The Vali is not a patient man. It is on your head now.'
'Yes,' I said. 'I will see to it.' With anguish I watched him walk away, carrying my freedom in his bag. What can have happened? What bee has entered Mister Bowles's head? He did not seem to mind so much about the soldiers this morning. He made no conditions then.
All my hopes, Excellency. I can write no more tonight, my misery is too great. I must see Mister Bowles.
He did not return to his hotel last night, or if so, it was very late. I waited, but he did not return. This morning, however, I have seen him. And I still cannot properly absorb what he said to me, the simple enormity of it. I sit here and look at the walls, my familiar possessions, with incredulity. I repeat his words to an imagined third party, trying to make them more accessible to the understanding. 'I'd like to leave it for a day or two, old chap,' was what he said. Nonchalantly. Leaning back in his chair. Right ankle laid over left knee, polished black shoe idly jigging. A day or two! This was in the little café-bar in Saliras Street, near the market.
It was by the merest chance that I was led to him. I knew he had not been back to the hotel. I was walking through the market when I saw three men at a fruit stall, men I had not seen before. I always pause to observe strangers, it is ingrained habit with me.
I took them at first for Greeks, but there was something different about the way they carried themselves, and about their gestures. Besides this, one of them, while deeply tanned, had a lighter colouring than is customary in this region. He was a man of about forty, short but very powerfully built, wearing a blue calico jacket. There were gaps in his teeth when he smiled. The other two were indubitably men of the south, one elderly with a deeply seamed face and a gold ring in one ear, the other much younger, smooth-skinned and serious. I watched them buy aubergines and tomatoes, which the young man put into a cloth bag. Then after a brief conversation they separated, the thickset man walking off along Saliras Street, the other two moving slowly towards the steps that lead down to the lower part of the town.