“I know that.” Yashim put up a hand. Rebecca folded her arms. A little boy with a shaved head came in with a silver tray.
“We are the same. Not much to look at, eh? If we are rude, it is like the dirt in the street. Your people do not look for gold in dross. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Yashim nodded and took the glass of ayran.
“That is why we are able to live in peace. Not like those Greeks.” She snorted. “Whatever they have, they like to show it off. If it is jewels or happiness, they wear jewels or go around smiling. If it is sores and afflictions, the long face and the crazy grief. Today they are your best friend, and tomorrow they want to kill you in the street. A Greek, he is like a child. Every day he forgets. A Jew is a man. He is a man who remembers, every day.”
“Remembers what?”
Rebecca gazed at him and shook her head. A lock of her hair swung across her face, and she slipped it back. “Ah,” she said, “that you would never understand.”
Yashim smiled: he knew she was right. Was it Spain, he wondered, whose language they still spoke? That al-Andalus which the Jews—like the Moors—mourned as the Paradise they had lost, treasuring the keys to a vault in Granada, as some old Jewish families did; recalling the pattern of streets and synagogues in Seville? Or was it a promise? Spain was a long time ago. And it must have been many centuries since the Jews had received a sign.
He drained his glass and placed it carefully on the counter. “If your memory is so good,” he said drily, “perhaps you can tell me where a moneylender called Baradossa lives.”
Rebecca pursed her lips. “You’re a glutton for punishment,” she said.
53
YASHIM picked his way through the rubbish that had gathered in the courtyard; three tiers of wooden galleries sagged overhead, blocking out the light. The chill air smelled fetid. Yashim knocked several times before a cracked voice demanded his business. He put his lips close to the door.
“I want to talk about a debt.”
“Talk, talk. What is talk?” There was a long silence, then a click. A small hatch in the door opened, and an eye appeared. “Do I know you?”
“I’m here for Xani. The Albanian. Six hundred piastres.”
“When?”
“About six months ago.”
The hatch slid shut again. Inside, he could hear Baradossa muttering to himself.
The eye reappeared. “Who’s that with you?”
Yashim glanced around. The courtyard was empty.
“I’m alone,” Yashim said.
“Will you step back and show me your hands?”
Yashim stepped into a windowless room. Baradossa slid the bolts home and hobbled to the far end of a table, carrying a candle. The cold air reeked of cabbages and sweat. So clean, Rebecca had said, you could eat off the floor. He’d have liked to fetch her in.
Baradossa set the candle on the table and rubbed his hands. “Cold?”
He was a small man, slightly bent, with a gray, bushy beard and small white hands, which he held up in front of his chest, like a squirrel. He might have been forty-five, or seventy-five, except that he wore, Yashim noticed with surprise, artificial teeth: they clicked in his mouth when he talked. He was dressed in a dark woolen coat, with a patterned shawl across his shoulders. His stillness was expectant.
“Xani,” Yashim said. “I’ve come to pay.”
“Oh yes?” The old man sniffed. “It’s you now, is it?”
“I come as a friend.”
“A friend, is it?” Baradossa rubbed his chin. “Would that be capital or interest, efendi?”
Yashim reached into his cloak and drew out a purse. Baradossa’s eyes flickered toward it. Yashim held the purse softly in his hand. “Interest. Forty piastres.”
“Forty piastres?” Baradossa sounded surprised.
“Xani couldn’t come,” Yashim said.
Baradossa glanced from the purse to Yashim’s face. He moved his head slightly.
“Do you know Xani, efendi?”
Yashim shook his head reluctantly. He felt confused. The old man didn’t move.
“They asked me to come. The interest is due.”
Baradossa slowly raised his shoulders until they almost reached his ears. Then they dropped.
Yashim counted out the money onto the table. “Forty piastres.” He looked up. Baradossa was watching him. Then his upper lip peeled back into a grin, exposing a row of little yellow teeth.
“Forty piastres, efendi? What makes you think I want your money?”
He came around the table and put his hands to the door bolts, sliding them back.
“He owes you six hundred piastres!”
“Is that what they told you, efendi?” Baradossa swung the door wide open and peered out.
Yashim felt the surge of goodwill that had followed him from the kebab shop evaporate.
“There never was a debt, was there?” It was a statement, not a question. There had been a trick. At least he’d saved Marta’s little hoard. “Forgive me, efendi.”
He took a last look around the room. At the doorway Baradossa’s eye wandered to the table, then back to Yashim’s face. Yashim glanced down. It had been there all the time. A sheet of paper, on which was written in a neat Arabic hand the name Xani, and the sum of 600 piastres. Below the rubric, in red ink, a date in the Jewish calendar and the words: Paid In Full.
“The month of Tammuz,” Yashim said dully. “It’s just begun.”
Baradossa merely raised an eyebrow.
“So Xani came and paid it off?”
“Who else?”
It was Yashim’s turn to shrug. “Yes,” he echoed. “Who else?”
The courtyard seemed bright after the dimness of Baradossa’s cell. He picked his way downhill through the crooked streets, toward the Golden Horn.
“Who else?” he muttered to himself. A little breeze touched his cheeks; it came off the water. He didn’t feel it.
Xani had paid off his debt, out of the blue. And then, almost immediately, he disappeared. It didn’t make sense: the waterman should be enjoying his newfound freedom.
Yashim stopped in the street. Enver Xani, he thought, had disappeared for good.
54
“I don’t know who they were, Yashim efendi. I wouldn’t have let them go up if I’d known. There’s never been anything like this here, and I’ve been here for fifty years next April.”
Widow Matalya closed her eyes and shook her head. She was not a woman to give way to hysterics. Yashim stood patiently in the dark hallway, where she had been waiting for him, his head bowed.
“I’m sure you’re right, Matalya hatun. Can you tell me what exactly has happened?”
“Two men, my efendi. I heard the door go while I was cleaning. I always do my cleaning in the afternoons. You know that, don’t you, my dear efendi? In the afternoons.”
Yes, and in the mornings, too, Yashim thought. He resisted the urge to hurry. Widow Matalya had had a shock, and she was getting around it in her own way.
“There was a lot that needed dusting, too. Not that I neglect my dusting, efendi, I wouldn’t have you think that. But the carpets pick it up, have you noticed? I was thinking it was a good day for beating the carpets, with the sun shining in the yard, and the carpets getting a bit dusty—it must’ve been ages since they were taken out, I thought, at least not this year. How could I, with all that rain we had in the spring?”
“Much too wet, yes,” Yashim murmured. “And these two men—?”
“I was coming to that, my all-forgiving efendi. It’s like I said, I wouldn’t have let them in if I’d known. I saw you go out earlier, and that’s what I told them. They said they’d wait. Friends of yours, they said.” She clamped her gums together. “I wouldn’t go up there now, efendi. I’ll try to make a bit of sense first, that’s best. Now that you know, that is.”
“Thank you. You’ve done everything right,” Yashim reassured her. “But there’s really no need to worry. Please. You just go and sit down, and have a glass of tea.”