“The Ca d’Oro? I know the ship. She’s moored off the point. Both of you?”
Yashim explained it was just one passenger, and fixed a price. He shook hands with Lefevre and watched him settle himself into the bottom of the caique, the satchel on his knees. Then the boatman tapped out his pipe, stepped into the caique’s stern, and pushed off with a practiced flick of the wrist, which sent the frail craft skimming out into the darkness.
Yashim raised a hand in farewell, certain that the Frenchman would see him framed against the low lights of the landing stage. He thought of his friend Palewski: he’d be pleased by the story. Better pleased by the reflection that neither of them would ever have to see Lefevre again.
He smiled to himself. The light of the caique had blended into the darkness, so he dropped his hand and turned and went home.
23
Frozen at an angle just wide enough to admit a visitor on foot, the carriage gates of the Polish ambassador’s residency rusted on their hinges, escutcheons peeling on the iron shield. They seemed, like Poland itself, to represent an idea: certainly they had not opened to receive a carriage since the eighteenth century, when Poland succumbed to the territorial ambitions of her greedy and more powerful neighbors. A Janissary guard had once been stationed at the gates, but the Janissaries had been brutally suppressed in 1826, and afterward nobody thought to replace the sentries. Visitors, in truth, were few and far between.
Turning in at the gate, Yashim was surprised to find himself silently challenged by a sentry, who stood with folded arms, blocking his way. He was small for the job, and had a dirty face; he held a stick across his chest and a look in his eye that brooked no opposition.
Yashim bowed politely. “My name is Yashim. Is His Excellency the Ambassador at home?”
The little sentry shouldered his arms, swung abruptly on his bare heel, and walked stiffly toward the front door, where he took up a position at the foot of the steps. Yashim passed him with a nod. At the top of the steps he pushed the door, which opened with a creak.
“Don’t bother knocking, confound you,” said a voice from the darkened hall. “Just push in, do.”
Yashim obeyed. Stanislaw Palewski, Polish ambassador to the Sublime Porte, was leaning on the banisters, waving an arm in ironic salute.
“Oh-it’s you, Yashim! That’s all right. Come inside. Ever since I lost the key I keep finding total strangers wandering around the house.”
“I thought you were being rather well guarded.”
“Guarded? I suppose you mean the Xanis. Ye-es. The little boy shows promise. More than I can say for his father. Come upstairs.”
Yashim followed his old friend to the sitting room, where they rang for tea. Yashim tucked his feet up in one of the ambassador’s leaky leather armchairs while Palewski fell to pacing between the untidy bookcases and the portrait of King Jan Sobieski. Marta arrived with a tray, and Palewski nodded distractedly. Yashim poured the tea.
When Marta had left, Palewski turned around and said: “What do you make of Marta, Yashim?”
Yashim raised an eyebrow. “Marta?”
“My housekeeper.”
“I know who Marta is, Palewski. I’ve known her for years.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Well, I’m a bit worried about her.”
“You think she’s ill?”
“Ill? No, I don’t think so. It’s just that there’s something-she’s started-oh, I don’t know, Yashim, but she’s gone a bit odd. Dreamy, half the time. I come around a corner and she’s there, leaning on a broom, staring into space. And tears.”
“Tears?”
“She bursts into tears. I ask something, and she goes all red and darts away. Fact is, Yash, I’m beginning to think that she’s not happy.”
“I see.”
“Do you think that’s why she got the Xanis in?”
“The family in the coach house? Yes, for company. You might be right.”
Palewski looked dubious. “Can’t say they’re much by way of company. Mrs. Xani seems to spend the day inside sweeping the coach house, and the children muck about in the courtyard. The boy doesn’t talk, for some reason. I don’t think he’s dumb, just won’t talk. It’s rather odd. But Marta seems very fond of children, so I don’t complain. It was her idea to get them in the first place. Put a roof over their heads. The little girl likes to help her cook.”
“What about the father?”
“Xani? Moved in, all gratitude and smiles. Then he went and joined the watermen’s guild. He became a su yolu. So much for all those little repairs he was going to do.”
“Xani joined the watermen? I thought you had to be born into the job.”
Palewski shook his head. “As a rule, that’s true. But if a waterman dies without a successor, they let someone buy his way in. As long as he’s Albanian, that is. I suppose he had a cousin or someone to propose him. But look, enough about Xani,” he added, waving a hand. He seemed to have forgotten about Marta for the moment, so Yashim told him, instead, about Lefevre’s mysterious arrival-and departure.
“And the forty piastres?” Palewski arched his brows. “I don’t suppose you’ll be seeing them again, either. Really, Yashim, you should have made that scoundrel pay up.”
Yashim sighed. “I did try.”
“But not very hard.”
“No. Not very hard.” How could he explain to his friend how the sight of Lefevre’s pathetic satchel had changed everything between them? “I’ll think of it as a tax. The city is better off without a man like Lefevre in it.”
Palewski nodded. “I wonder what he got away with this time,” he said.
Yashim turned his head and stared out the window. The sky was blue with a touch of heat. Wisteria leaves rustled against the window frame, and a little bird swung on a twig, grooming itself in hurried bursts. “He didn’t have anything, as far as I could tell,” he said quietly.
Palewski snorted. “That’s what you say. I’ve half a mind to go upstairs and check on the wretched heads. He probably got the caique to drop him off somewhere. I wonder what he came for, anyway.”
“Mmm,” Yashim murmured. “Books, I suppose. Old manuscripts.”
“Old books? That would hardly explain his funk. I think he must have been angling for something bigger than that, and they set the heavies on him. What’s the matter?”
Yashim had looked around suddenly, frowning.
“One odd thing happened while I was coming over this morning. The captain of the Ca d’Oro, I saw him outside the fish market. I thought it was him. It was just a glimpse and I lost him in the crowd.”
“Sailing delayed?”
“No, I looked. The Ca d’Oro has gone.”
Palewski put his fingertips together. “Well, you know what Pera’s like these days. More Italians than an organ-grinder’s funeral. More everyone. Half of them foreign and the other half Greeks pretending to be.”
Yashim smiled. Twenty-five years before, when Palewski first arrived to take up his post, foreigners were rare even in Pera. Nowadays the streets were full of them-sailors, tailors, storekeepers, hatters, forwarding agents, old soldiers, and even Protestant priests. Being a foreigner didn’t mean much anymore. Many of them were the dregs of every Mediterranean port, too, men whose past didn’t bear much scrutiny: they fetched up here to practice their dodges and deceptions without the slightest fear of getting caught. The Mediterranean was like a purse, and Pera the seam at the bottom where the dust and fluff collected.
Centuries ago the Ottomans had allowed foreign ambassadors to judge and sentence their own nationals-an errant sailor, a thieving valet-in the intelligent belief that the foreigners understood one another better than they could hope to do; they didn’t want foreign miscreants clogging the wheels of Ottoman justice, either. Now that there were so many foreigners in the city the situation had grown out of hand. Many of the people claiming extraterritorial rights were scarcely foreigners at all-Greek-born Englishmen, for instance, whose papers were in order but who had never been closer to England than the Istanbul docks; Corfiotes who could claim protection from the French ambassador, without speaking a word of French; island Greeks who flew the colors of the Netherlands on ships that never sailed beyond the Adriatic. Half the native shipping in Ottoman waters was formally beyond Ottoman jurisdiction. And it was almost pointless to expect the British ambassador to sit in judgment over some Maltese cutthroat who waved his naturalization papers in the face of the Ottoman police: the British didn’t even maintain a jail in their embassy grounds.