The trouble with Geven began while we were in the kitchen eating our dinner; or, rather, while I was eating and he was putting away more brandy. It was about seven o’clock, and he had been drinking steadily since six. In that hour he must have had nearly a third of a bottle. He wasn’t yet quite drunk; but he was certainly far from sober.
He had made a perfectly delicious risotto with finely chopped chicken livers and pimientos in it. I was on my second helping and trying to persuade him to eat what he had on his plate, when Fischer came in.
“Geven!”
Geven looked up and gave him his wet smile. “Vive la Compagnie,” he said convivially, and reached for a dirty glass. “Un petit verre, monsieur?”
Fischer ignored the invitation. “I wish to know what you are preparing for dinner tonight,” he said.
“It is prepared.” Geven gave him a dismissive wave of his hand and turned to me again.
“Then you can tell me what it is.” At that moment Fischer caught sight of my plate. “Ah, I see. A risotto, eh?”
Geven’s lip quivered. “That is for us servants. For the master and his guests there is a more important dish in the manner of the country.”
“What dish?”
“You would not understand.”
“I wish to know.”
Geven answered in Turkish. I understood one word of what he said: kuzu, baby lamb.
To my surprise, and to Geven’s, too, I think, Fischer answered in the same language.
Geven stood up and shouted something.
Fischer shouted back, and then walked from the room before Geven had time to answer.
Geven sat down again, his lower lip quivering so violently that, when he tried to drain his glass, most of the brandy ran down his chin. He refilled the glass and glowered at me.
“Pislik!” he said. “Domuz!”
Those are rude words in Turkish. I gathered that they were meant for Fischer, so I said nothing and got on with my food.
He refilled my glass and shoved it towards me. “A toast,” he said.
“All right.”
“There’ll be no promotion this side of the ocean, so drink up, my lads, bless ’em all!”
Only he didn’t say “bless.” I had forgotten that he had been educated in Cyprus when it was under British rule.
“Drink!”
I drank. “Bless ’em all.”
He began to sing. “Bless all the sergeants and W.O. ones, bless all the corporals and their bleeding sons! Drink!”
I sipped. “Bless ’em all.”
He drained the glass again and leaned across the chopping table breathing heavily. “I tell you,” he said menacingly; “if that bastard says one more word, I kill him.”
“He’s just a fool.”
“You defend him?” The lower lip quivered.
“No, no. But is he worth killing?”
He poured himself another drink. Both lips were working now, as if he had brought another thought agency into play in order to grapple with the unfamiliar dilemma my question had created.
The Hamuls arrived just then to prepare for the service of the evening meal, and I saw the old man’s eyes take in the situation. He began talking to Geven. He spoke a country dialect and I couldn’t even get the drift of what he was saying; but it seemed to improve matters a little. Geven grinned occasionally and even laughed once. However, he still went on drinking, and, when I tried to slip away to my room, there was a sudden flare of temper.
“Where you go?”
“You have work to do here. I am in the way.”
“You sit down. You are my guest in the kitchen. You drink nothing. Why?”
I had a whole tumblerful of brandy in front of me by now. I took another sip.
“Drink!”
I drank and tried to look as if I were enjoying myself. When he wasn’t looking, I managed to tip half the brandy in my glass down the sink. It didn’t do much good. As soon as he noticed the half-empty glass, he filled it up again.
Dinner had been ordered for eight-thirty, and by then he was weaving. It was Mrs. Hamul who did the dishing up. He leaned against the range, glass in hand, smiling benignly on her while she ladled the loathsome contents of the stewpot onto the service platters. Dinner was finally served.
“Bless ’em all!”
“Bless ’em all!”
“Drink!”
At that moment there was an indistinct shout from the direction of the dining room. Then a door along the passage was flung open, and there were quick footsteps. I heard Miss Lipp call out: “Hans!” Then Fischer came into the kitchen. He was carrying a plateful of food.
As Geven turned unsteadily to confront him, Fischer yelled something in Turkish and then flung the plate straight at his head.
The plate hit Geven on the shoulder and then crashed to the floor; but quite a lot of food went onto his face. Gravy ran down his smock.
Fischer was still shouting. Geven stared at him stupidly. Then, as Fischer flung a final insult and turned to go, a most peculiar expression came over Geven’s face. It was almost like a wide-eyed smile. “ Monsieur est servi,” he said. At the same instant, I saw his hand dart out for the chopping knife.
I shouted a warning to Fischer, but he was already out in the passage. Geven was after him in a flash. By the time I got through the door, Fischer was already backing away and yelling for help. There was blood streaming from a gash on his face and he had his hands up trying to protect himself. Geven was hacking and slashing at him like a madman.
As I ran forward and clung onto the arm wielding the chopping knife, Harper came into the passage from the dining room.
“Senden illallah!” bawled Geven.
Then Harper hit him in the side of the neck and he went down like an empty sack.
Fischer’s arms and hands were pouring blood now, and he stood there looking down at them as if they did not belong to him.
Harper glanced at me. “Get the car around, quick.”
I stopped the car at the foot of the steps and went in through the front of the house. It did not seem to be a moment for standing on ceremony.
Fischer was sitting in a marble-floored washroom just off the main hall. Harper and Miss Lipp were wrapping his hands and arms in towels; Miller was trying to stanch the face wound. The Hamuls were running round in circles.
Harper saw me and motioned to Hamul. “Ask the old guy where the nearest doctor is. Not a hospital, a private doctor.”
“I will ask him,” muttered Fischer. His face was a dirty gray.
I caught Hamul’s arm and shoved him forward.
There were two doctors in Sariyer, he said, but the nearest was outside Bulyukdere in the other direction. He would come to the villa if called by telephone.
Harper shook his head when Fischer told him this. “We’ll go to him ,” he said. “We’ll give him five hundred lira and tell him you tripped over an electric fan. That should fix it.” He looked at Miss Lipp. “You and Leo had better stay here, honey. The fewer, the better.”
She nodded.
“I don’t know the way to this doctor’s house,” I said. “May we take Hamul as a guide?”
“Okay.”
Harper sat in the back with Fischer and a supply of fresh towels; Hamul came in front with me.
The doctor’s house was two miles along the coast road. When we got there, Fischer told Hamul to wait outside in the car with me; so it was not possible for me to walk back and tell the men in the Opel what was going on. Presumably, they would find out from the doctor later on. Hamul fingered the leather of the seat for a while, then curled up on it and went to sleep. I tried to see if I could get out without waking him, but the sound of the door opening made him sit up instantly. After that, I just sat there and smoked. I suppose that I should have written a cigarette packet message about the car doors and dropped it then-Hamul wouldn’t have noticed that-but at that point I still thought that I was going to be able to make a verbal report later.