“Monsieur Mavrogordato will see you, efendi.”
Mavrogordato was small and square with dark hair and a carefully trimmed mustache. He sat with his jacket on the back of his chair, sleeves rolled, his thin white hairy forearms resting on a desk covered in papers, like a shipwrecked sailor clinging to a raft. It was hard to guess his age: fifty, maybe. Older than his wife. And Yashim had been right: the boy, Alexander, took after her.
“How do you do? Coffee? Stefan, coffee.” His voice had a rasp to it, and an accent that Yashim could not quite place. When Stefan had left the room he leaned forward, blinking.
“You have some business interest, ah”-he glanced down at a card on his desk-“Yashim efendi.”
“The name means something to you?” Yashim asked, cocking his head. The banker looked apologetically blank. “I thought-perhaps your wife…”
Mavrogordato startled. “My wife?”
There was a moment’s pause. Yashim fluttered his hands.
“Forgive me, I should explain. Maximilien Lefevre. The archaeologist.”
Mavrogordato frowned. “Lefevre,” he repeated. Then, in a somber tone, he added: “You haven’t heard?”
“I knew him slightly,” Yashim said slowly.
Mavrogordato gave a grunt. “Knew him. Hmm.” He began to tap his fingers absently on the table.
“I’m investigating his death. Trying to establish some facts.”
“I know nothing about that,” the banker said.
“I didn’t mean to suggest-” Yashim raised his hands. Even in this office he could still hear the murmur of the crowd outside, the faint ringing of little bells, the rattling of carriages on the cobbles. “You had met him, too?”
“I-he came here once. He wished to borrow some money.”
He paused. Yashim said nothing.
“I lent him the money,” the banker continued. “A small amount.” Mavrogordato paused, as if remembering, then levered himself briskly away from the desk. “Very unfortunate. But business must go on.”
“Of course, efendi. If I might just ask-did you talk together? He was an interesting man.”
Mavrogordato looked surprised. “I’m afraid I have no interest in archaeology. Dull of me, I am sure, but I am a man of business. You understand.”
Yashim cocked his head. “How much did he borrow?”
The banker blew out his cheeks. “If you ask me, I believe it was two hundred francs.”
“Ah. French money.”
“You know, these days…One can’t lend piastres.”
“Because…?”
“The value, it’s too unsettled.” Mavrogordato waved a podgy hand. “These are financial things, efendi.”
“About which I know so little,” Yashim agreed. “Is that why he came to you, do you think?”
Mavrogordato gave a deprecating shrug and picked up a paper on his desk. “I couldn’t say, efendi. I wish you luck.”
“Thank you so much for your time.” Yashim paused, with his hand on the doorknob. “One final thing I forgot to ask-what kind of security did Lefevre give you?”
For a moment Mavrogordato’s eyes searched the room. He gestured with the paper in his hand. “He was a Frenchman. It was only a small loan.”
“Yes, of course. He gave you nothing.”
As he closed the door, he saw that Mavrogordato was still watching him, blinking.
45
“Poor bastard,” Palewski said. He glanced through the window, where the bees were dozily buffeting the wisteria. “Don’t you find these summer evenings unbearably sad? It must be my age.”
Outside, a stork clattered its bill; a pair had lately taken up residence on the new pinnacle of the Galata Tower a few hundred yards away.
Palewski bent forward and retrieved the little book from the table. “Lefevre must have been very frightened to leave this in your flat.”
“I suppose he thought of it when I went to get him a berth on the boat,” Yashim said. “It cheered him up, somehow.”
“Thinking it was safe, yes.” Palewski could not quite rid his voice of its contempt.
He stuck his nose in the book and began to murmur to himself. Yashim helped himself to the ambassador’s tea and leaned back in his chair, trying to recall Lefevre’s mood, trying to remember their last words. He had got into that caique-how? He could remember that he, Yashim, had been slightly impatient with the whole affair-the money and Lefevre’s petulance about the boat. After that, he hadn’t paid Lefevre too much attention. He thought he would never see him again.
But Lefevre must have pondered the possibility. Hence the hidden book. And he had stepped into the bobbing caique and pushed off without a word.
There were many things you could find to dislike about Lefevre, but you couldn’t fault his bravery.
Meanwhile, everyone was shortly going to be invited to think that Yashim had killed him. It didn’t matter whether they believed it or not: just airing the possibility would be enough. Slander was raised only against the weak: nobody flung accusations at people whose power was secure. To be placed under suspicion showed a want of luck on Yashim’s part; and nobody in Istanbul, least of all in the palace, liked an unlucky man.
Yashim raised his cup and squinted at his friend through the steam, with a sudden upsurge of affection. Palewski seemed to feel his regard, because he looked up from the book and smiled.
“I can’t think what all the fuss is about,” he said. “I know this book. Petrus Gyllius,” Palewski explained, “was an antiquarian. Like your unfortunate friend, I suppose. Like him he was a Frenchman. Pierre Gilles. But in those days educated men wrote in Latin, so it’s Gyllius to you and me. He came out here in the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent. Mid-1500s, your days of glory.”
Palewski had risen from his seat and was bending down by his bookshelves. He pulled out a couple of tomes, flicked through them one after another, and finally ran his finger down a page.
“Here we are. Gyllius. That’s right. Comes out here in 1550 with the French ambassador. Stays on a few years, then all of a sudden he joins Suleyman on a campaign against the Persians. It’s an odd interlude, but he gets back the following year and then goes on to Rome. Writes his book, De Aedificio. ”
“This book,” said Yashim morosely.
“Hmmm. I suppose you wouldn’t come by a copy all that easily. 1560-that’s the first edition.”
“There were others?”
“Oh, it’s been translated. English, French. I’ve got a French edition, though I can’t see it for the moment.”
“No,” Yashim said decisively. “There has to be something about this copy of the book that’s unique. If only I could read it.”
“Leave it with me, Yash. I’ll investigate. Quite enjoy it, actually.”
“Watch out for the little notes inside-don’t let them fall out.”
The book seemed to have functioned as a holdall, its pages stuffed with notes and folded papers.
“Why was he murdered so brutally? They hacked his sternum in two, and split his ribs apart.”
Palewski winced. “God! Like a Viking sacrifice.”
“A-what?”
“Viking, Yashim. You’ve heard of the Vikings, surely? The berserkers? Like your old regiment of the deli-people who turned mad when they went to war. These were the northern variety: red hair, beefy joints, terrific sailors. Exploded out of their fjords about twelve centuries ago. Ships carved like dragons. Primitive range of gods. Blood and thunder all summer: rape, murder, and pillage. Long poems about it to keep them happy all winter. Tough wasn’t the word. They scuffed Europe into what we call the Dark Ages. Most notable product, after widows: Russia.”
Yashim was leaning forward, listening intently. Now he shook his head. “What do you mean, Russia? Or is it a Polish joke?”
Palewski looked pained. “Not at all. The Vikings didn’t just sail across oceans. They used the Baltic rivers, too. Built ships which could sail on a heavy dew. But when they reached the Volga, they didn’t have to make their own water. Up the Volga, down the Dnieper. The Black Sea. Constantinople. Easy. They attacked a few times, too. Set up shop in Kiev-a good safe base for their raids down here, and it’s been the tradition ever since. In the end, of course, the Byzantines found it cheaper and easier to convert them to Orthodox Christianity-their leader took the name Yaroslav and thought he was the emperor’s little brother. But he was a Viking all the same.”