“There are many books,” he said querulously. “Tomorrow.”
The shadows deepened: it was Goulandris’s impression that the man had taken a step closer, into the room. For him, with one eye, it was always hard to tell.
But yes, the voice seemed closer now.
“Not many books. Just one. A Latin book, no? I am sure you can remember.”
Goulandris swallowed. He leaned away from the desk, allowing his hand to move toward a little bell that stood on a low shelf behind his stool.
“Not now,” he said. “I am going home.”
The man was near the desk. “Please, Monsieur Goulandris, don’t touch that bell.”
Goulandris checked himself. He began to rise from his stool, leaning both hands on the desk.
But the stranger, it seemed, didn’t want Goulandris to stand up ever again.
12
ARAM Malakian fished out a bunch of keys in his long, slender fingers and fitted one to the lock.
“Patience, patience,” he muttered with a smile. The lock broke and the metal gates of his shop swung back.
“Enter, my friend. You must look and touch—and I have some new treasures I would like to show you. I do not ask you to buy them—today we will not speak of such a thing—but only to look and admire what workmanship existed in the past. Sit down, please. We will have a tea together, Yashim efendi.”
Aram snapped his fingers and a little boy ran up to take his order.
“No, no. Please let us not look there—this is for the people who know nothing at all. Blessed are the ignorant! I have some pieces which are interesting.”
He picked up a linen pouch and slipped several coins onto the low table.
“The English physician, Dr. Millingen, is a great collector of coinage. I think he will want these.”
Yashim sighed. “Incredible. All the collectors come through your shop, don’t they?”
The old Armenian wagged his head, neither yes nor no.
“Lefèvre, for instance. A Frenchman.”
“Monsieur Lefèvre. I know him, yes. He is an archaeologist of great erudition.”
“What sort of things interest him?”
Malakian picked up a sunflower seed and split it between his teeth. “Byzantine work. Silverware, mosaic, jewelry. Old icons. Incunabula and illuminated manuscripts.”
“Incunabula?”
“The first printed books. These things are of course very rare—unless one knows where to look. That is the first step.”
Yashim waited for him to go on. “And then?”
“Yashim efendi, what shall I say? I am not a hunter. I sit and I wait, and if treasure makes its way to me now and then, I am content. Whereas Lefèvre—he is an archaeologist.”
“He digs at sites, yes.”
“I think he digs, but not always with a spade.” Malakian tugged at his earlobe. “I have a cousin, Yashim efendi. He is a monk in Erzerum. A Frenchman visited his monastery a few years ago, to study—they have a famous scriptorum. Many, many rare old books—and many ignorant old priests. The Frenchman showed the librarian some books which were badly damaged. Out of gratitude for their help in his work, he offered to have these books repaired.”
“In Istanbul?”
Malakian turned his head this way and that, like an elderly tortoise.
“Tchah! Where is that tea? In Istanbul, yes. But later he wrote to the librarian, explaining that the best bookbinder for the job was in France—in Dijon. That was almost three years ago.”
Yashim arched his eyebrows. Malakian put up a hand.
“In fact, the books came back. This year, I think. It was a long time—but they were well bound, and the librarian was pleased. I am sorry to say, his pleasure was short-lived. Some of the original illustrated pages were missing. The binder in Dijon—was he careless or perhaps dishonest? It is hard to say. Lefèvre has stopped answering letters. Do you see? I do not think this was an isolated case. Lefèvre seems to be a clever man, well informed. He is a good judge of quality—better than the poor monks he works on. But he has been lucky, also.”
“Lucky? You mean he sometimes finds what he wants by chance? Surely all antiquarians have that experience.”
“No, efendi. That is not the luck I mean.” He gazed sadly at Yashim. “Three days ago I sold a counterfeit coin to a dragoman at the Russian embassy. I got a very good price.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, you are shocked. I see it. Perhaps, you are thinking, I will not buy anything from Aram Malakian again. So, what is lost?”
“My trust, perhaps.”
Malakian smiled and nodded. “But you see, efendi, both of us knew this coin was a counterfeit. Because it was made in the same era as the real coin, it is a collector’s item. Now, like this”—he snapped his tapering fingers—“your trust is restored, I hope.”
Before Yashim could answer, the tea boy suddenly reappeared, flinging himself against the folded gates.
“The night watch!” he gasped. “In the book bazaar. They say there’s blood everywhere. I’m going to see!”
Malakian turned slowly. “Blood?”
The boy darted off, his empty tray swinging madly from his fingers.
“Tomfoolery,” Malakian muttered. He looked anxious. He began to shovel the coins back into the linen bag, and Yashim noticed that his hands were trembling. “I was speaking of trust. A few words and—puff! Trust is gone.” He dropped the bag into a drawer and locked it.
Yashim nodded slowly.
“Sometimes I think Lefèvre must have forgotten that ignorant monks, cloistered from the world, still have powerful friends and protectors. We Armenians are a small people and do not choose to make enemies. But the Greeks? I am surprised that Lefèvre has come back to Istanbul. I think maybe he pushes his luck too far.”
Malakian paused and looked around his cubicle. “I’m sorry, efendi, but one can’t be too careful. The boy talks of death, and blood. It could be the work of thieves, to make us frightened. We leave our shops to look and—paff, they get in. You understand?”
Yashim was on his feet. “Stay here,” he said. “I’ll go and see.”
13
THE market was in an uproar: Malakian was not the only trader to be hurriedly securing his goods, ringing down the shutters, while anxious shoppers streamed for the gates. Following on the tea boy’s footsteps, Yashim had expected an increasing hubbub as he approached the book bazaar; instead the atmosphere grew tense and frozen, and in the alley itself there was hardly a sound to be heard.
A crowd of silent men blocked his view.
“Palace,” he murmured. The men stood aside automatically, barely sparing him a glance. He stepped forward, one hand raised, and received a salute from a pale man in the red uniform of a market guard.
“Palace,” Yashim repeated tersely. “A man dead?”
“That’s right, efendi.” The guard swallowed. “We’re still trying to find the kadi.”
“Can you tell me what happened?”
“The door was shut, efendi. That’s all. It might have been shut all night, and it looked like it was locked. I mean, the bar was across, and everything.”
“You noticed that on the night watch?”
The guard stirred nervously. “Well, efendi, not exactly. I—I don’t recall. It was just this morning, about half an hour ago, that we see the bar still up, and the padlock—it was only hanging there. You don’t see that much in the dark, efendi.”
“But by daylight—you thought it looked strange?”
“All the traders had come in already. Talak—that’s my companion—he says we ought to take a look. I knocked on the door with my stick then. Sounds a bit stupid, doesn’t it? What with the door half locked on the outside.”
“No, but I understand,” Yashim said. He’d seen it before, the way that sudden death made a nonsense of the things people did and said. Murder, above all, overturned the natural order of God’s creation: it was only to be expected that unreason and absurdity should crackle in its wake. “Nobody came—and you opened the door?”