64
YASHIM slept badly. In his dreams he saw Baradossa’s livid face, and the teeth protruding; then the dead man’s eyes turned dark and as the flames rose he saw it wasn’t Baradossa but the brazen serpent that was staring at him in all the terror of victory. And Lefèvre was there, cramming his money into the serpent’s maw.
When he woke up, it was with a nagging doubt in his mind. He lit a lamp and took out Gyllius’s book, in French translation.
All other cities have their periods of government, he read, and are subject to the decays of time. Constantinople alone seems to claim a kind of immortality and will be a city as long as humanity shall live either to inhabit or rebuild it.
He turned the page. Gyllius described the layout of the city, and its walls, discussing Aya Sofia in detail, with reference to ancient sources. There were a few remarks about the Hippodrome and the Serpent Column: Yashim made a penciled note beside them, intending to check against Lefèvre’s copy.
He could feel his concentration slipping. First someone had surreptitiously searched his flat, leaving nothing more than a few scattered grains of rice; next time they had smashed it apart. He thought of some of his books with a pang of anxiety. For Yashim regret was an emotion that held nothing but danger, and he had long ago succeeded in achieving a distance from it. But books were the glory of Ottoman art, and he had some he treasured. He flicked through Gyllius’s book, and opened it at random.
The Cistern remains. Through the inhabitants’ carelessness and contempt for everything that is curious it was never discovered, except by me, who was a stranger among them, after a long and diligent search for it. The whole area was built over, which made it less suspected that there was a cistern there. By chance I went into a house where there was a way down to it and went aboard a little skiff. I discovered it after the master of the house lit some torches and rowed me here and there across through the pillars…
He read the passage again, wondering what it could mean. Never discovered, except by me. Typical scholars. What of the man whose house stood over the cistern—had he not discovered it? With a skiff, no less! Yashim smiled to himself; scholars were all the same, at all times, in all lands.
He was very intent upon catching his fish, with which the Cistern abounds, and speared some of them by the light of the torches.
Yashim blinked. An underground lake, full of fish? He wondered how the fish would taste: pale, perhaps blind, their flesh would be insipid. More likely, Gyllius had simply made the whole thing up.
But the image stuck with him as he lay there in the dark, trying to sleep, of a man rowing under Istanbul in a little boat, spearing fish by torchlight.
65
WIDOW Matalya bobbed from foot to foot. She didn’t know what to suggest: the Frankish lady had woken up hours before, but whenever she looked in she said nothing, simply stared at her with sad eyes. Eventually Widow Matalya brought her something to eat, and a glass of tea.
The girl sat up in bed. “Chai,” she said shyly.
Widow Matalya nodded encouragingly. She pointed to the plates one by one. “Bread. Cheese. Olives. Eat up,” she added. “It’s good.” She patted her stomach. Then, quite unconsciously, she stroked the girl’s cheek. “I know how it is.”
The Frankish woman gave her a small smile. Widow Matalya sat down on the bed, encouraged.
“Even for me, it was a shock. We have them and then we lose them. Why should we be surprised? The men, always racing to and fro—one day they’re just little boys, and the next—well, they’re gone. But at least—” She checked herself, for once. At least they leave something behind, she had been going to say. But she couldn’t presume. She took the little white hand in hers and patted it. Then she picked up an olive and popped it into the girl’s mouth.
The woman said something. Widow Matalya smiled and nodded. “That’s right. There’ll be a lot of crying to be done, and you could do with building up your strength.” She carefully broke a bit of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. Frank she might be, but she was like everyone else, like a little bird. A pretty little bird.
“This is good bread. The olives are good,” she said kindly. “Learn to smile again! You’re barely twenty-five, I’d say, and who knows what Frankish gentleman wouldn’t jump to that smile?” She put out a hand and stroked the girl’s hair. “And you’ve got lovely hair, I’ll say that for you. You’re a real peach.”
The girl put her hand over the old woman’s and held it there, pressed against her hair, with her eyes shut.
“She’ll live,” Widow Matalya later told Yashim. “But it’s a cruel shame, efendi. She is very far away from her own people. The only word she knows is chai. Not that she asks, she’s very sweet. But can you—can you talk to her?”
He met her in the yard at the back of the house: Widow Matalya had thought it somehow more proper. Amélie was sitting on the stump of an old column, under the shade of a fig tree, wearing a new blouse and the skirt she had worn the day before. Her thick curls were held up in a ribbon, and her neck was bare. Even though her eyes were red, Yashim thought she looked very lovely.
“Madame Lefèvre,” he began. “I am—I am so sorry.”
She cast her eyes to the ground. “I had not expected…” She trailed off. Then she looked up, tilting her chin. “You have been very kind, monsieur.”
Yashim looked away. He rubbed a fig leaf between his fingers. “I meant to tell you straightaway. And did not know how.”
He heard her breathe. “Please tell me—how it happened.”
He told her. He spoke about his Thursday dinner, the first time they had met, making it sound as if they had become friends. He told her about the way Lefèvre had reappeared, afraid, and the way he had sought his help, with the story of the ship, and the caïque, leaving out little.
“You sent him to his death,” she said, trembling.
Yashim inclined his head. “I had no idea,” he said. “It seems to me now—I think he went to meet someone. Before he left.”
Her eyes searched his face. “It would be like him,” she said. “Forgive me, efendi. You did your best.”
Yashim thought that nothing she could have said would have made him feel so small.
“I shall take you to the embassy,” he said.
“The embassy,” she repeated dully.
“Your people, madame,” he said. “They can take care of you.”
She bent down to slide her finger between the leather and her stockinged foot as if there were something there. She straightened up. She let slip the ribbon from her hair and with a shake of her head let it fall in a cascade over her shoulders.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Yashim. I am Amélie Lefèvre. Nobody—least of all an embassy—takes care of me.”
66
THE man with a knife moved easily through the city. Its blade was very bright and very sharp, and it hung openly from his belt without a scabbard.
Sultanahmet. Bayezit. It was the hour of prayer: from the minarets overhead the muezzins were calling the faithful to their devotions. The man didn’t hear them. He didn’t notice the crowds, streaming toward the mosques. He skipped the turning toward Bayezit and carried on at a loping run toward the third hill. The crowds meant nothing to him: they could not impede him as he moved across the city, always at the same pace, making the familiar turns.
Now Bayezit was behind him.
The man with a knife knew this, although his eye was fixed on darkness. This, he thought, would be his single contact today with the people who sifted and surged through the city streets.