“It is the same with the House of Osman. Anyone could rule the empire-even I. But only the sultan has-this provenance.”
“In a manner of speaking, yes, you’re right.” Palewski frowned. “I suppose when we-the Poles-began to elect our kings, we lost track of the story. Then we lost our country, too,” he added dejectedly.
“You said this book was unique,” Yashim said quickly.
Palewski rallied himself. “From what I’ve seen, I would say that it belonged to Delmonico.”
Yashim shook his head.
“About forty years after Gyllius came to Istanbul,” the ambassador explained, “an Italian called Delmonico wrote an account of the city himself. He’d been a page in the household of the sultan-the Grand Signor. Knew what he was talking about. But forty years later, Yashim. He was interested by Gyllius, because Gyllius saw the city as it had been.”
“And what was that?”
“Byzantine Constantinople.” Palewski frowned. “No, that’s not quite right. Gyllius is really writing about three cities, one above the other. The first-it’s classical Constantinople. Fifth century. Gyllius has got an old book, a description of the city as it stood in Justinian’s day. With this in his hand, he goes about trying to identify the old monuments, the old palaces-ruins, most of them. Interesting stuff.
“But there’s another Constantinople he’s describing, too-the one he’s walking around in. It’s the city that rose up in the intervening centuries-during a thousand years of Greek religion, Roman law, Greek language. Of course it’s changing again, in front of his very eyes. The Ottomans have taken charge. So Gyllius collars old Greeks who can still remember how it was before the Conquest-the name of an old church, for instance, which has been demolished or turned into a mosque. He’s not so interested in all that himself-but we are.”
“I see what you mean,” Yashim agreed. “And the third city?”
Palewski clasped his hands together. “The third city, Yashim, is being built around him. Ottoman Istanbul.”
Yashim took the book from the bed and turned it over in his hands.
“It was a time of change, Yashim. Like today, I suppose. You and I watch Istanbul being made more Western every day. Gyllius recorded the opposite: the remaking of Istanbul along Muslim lines. By the time Delmonico, the Italian, arrived, the process was to all intents complete. The city we have today.”
“And this man-Delmonico-examined Gyllius’s book.”
“Of course. To learn what had changed.”
“How do you know?”
“I didn’t notice it until I started reading-he writes in the margin of the text. He used brown ink. I’ve got Delmonico’s own book, and there are pieces I recognize. General observations. No one else was so close to Istanbul, writing in Italian, at the right period. It has to be Delmonico. And that, Yashim, is provenance.”
“You think Lefevre would have spotted it?” But Yashim knew the answer already. Lefevre would have known immediately, the moment he found the book in Goulandris’s little store. Goulandris would have had no idea.
“I expect he bought it cheap,” Palewski said.
Yashim nodded slowly. “Somebody writes a book-Gyllius. Another man comes along and scribbles a few thoughts in the margin. Delmonico. Why does Lefevre think it’s so important?”
Palewski threw up his hands. “As to that, Yashim, I’ve no idea. He could have sold it for a little more, I suppose, by playing up the Delmonico angle. But it wasn’t going to make him rich.”
Yashim thought of the Frenchman, with his neat hands and veiled threats. “I’m quite sure that Lefevre smelled money in that book. Did you say you had a French translation?”
“I found it last night.”
Yashim stared down at the book in his hands. “Lefevre died because he acted on something he believed in,” he said. “You reminded me that he believed everything he read in books.”
He stood up. “Whatever it was, maybe Gyllius believed it, too.” Yashim scratched his head. “Didn’t you say that there was something odd about Gyllius? His going to war?”
“He went east with Suleyman, to fight the Persians. It does seem an odd thing to do, for an antiquarian.”
“Why would Suleyman want him along, anyway?”
“Oh, as to that, I think Suleyman had no objection to foreigners witnessing his triumphs. Let me fetch you the French edition.”
50
“Yashim efendi. Excuse me, please.”
Yashim looked around. Marta was standing in the shadows below the stairs, knotting her apron between her fingers.
“Marta!” He took a step closer.
“Enver Xani, efendi. He is disappeared!”
“I heard, Marta. But you mustn’t worry. There are any number of reasons why he might have had to stay out.”
He tried to think of one. A catastrophic leak, perhaps? A crumbling reservoir? He wondered how far the watermen’s guild communicated with the families involved: if Xani was being kept on overnight, someone should have sent a message. So perhaps it was really a night out with the lads instead, in the taverns of the port.
Marta put a knuckle to her lips.
“I do not want to trouble the lord ambassador,” she said. “But perhaps you will help? You are his friend, and a good man.”
Yashim inclined his head. Marta had done him kindness in the past, he would not refuse her.
“Mrs. Xani says they must pay the moneylender tomorrow. Forty piastres. She has very little money.” She lifted a small red leather purse, which hung from the belt slung around her hips. “I have twenty-seven piastres. It is my money. If they do not pay, the debt will grow worse.”
Yashim frowned. He tried to remember Mrs. Xani, but his impression was indistinct: a woman in red skirts, a broom in her hand. Was Marta right to give her savings to this woman? Twenty-seven piastres: it was quite a lot of money.
“Can’t Mrs. Xani ask for time, until her husband gets back? Maybe he can pay off the debt.”
Marta shook her head. “You don’t understand, efendi. Forty piastres is the interest. Every month they pay.”
Yashim pursed his lips together and blew out. “Forty a month! I don’t believe it. How much does Xani owe?”
“Six hundred,” said Marta, lowering her voice. “Mrs. Xani, she is afraid for the children, if they cannot pay the money.”
Yashim knew nothing of the Xanis, but any fool could recognize Marta’s gullible good nature. Marta was fond of the children, Palewski had said. He wondered if it had all been planned: an estimate of Marta’s resources, Xani staying away to provide a pretext for this approach. My children, Marta! Oh, I am so afraid! Just forty piastres…
“Marta,” Yashim said firmly. “Xani is a poor man. Where would he borrow six hundred piastres? Why would he ever need so much money?”
Marta almost jumped in surprise. “Oh no, efendi! Xani is a good man. And a waterman, too. But he needed this money to pay the guild. An entrance fee, you understand, to buy the position.”
Yashim scratched his head. That, he admitted, made more sense. The guild would expect a payment-Xani was a kind of apprentice.
“But now he’s not here to pay? It’s convenient, Marta.”
“His wife is afraid, when he does not return. Maybe-”
She made a frightened little gesture, sketching a possibility she didn’t want to shape aloud.
Yashim tapped his foot angrily on the ground. He folded his arms and looked away.
“And Mrs. Xani has no money?”
“No, efendi. She does not. And the lord ambassador is very kind, but-Mrs. Xani does not want him to know. You understand, Yashim efendi?”
“Tchah!” Yashim exclaimed. “Very well. Who is this moneylender?”
“A Jew. He is called Baradossa. He lives in Balat, but Mrs. Xani does not know where.”
“Then how does she plan to get the money to him?”
Marta looked down and stirred the ground with her foot. “Yashim efendi, I thought-maybe, as a favor-maybe you could take him the money. You could find out where he lives. Please?”