Yashim sprang forward. For a second he saw it all frozen, like a tableau at the theater: Amelie on her knees on the gangplank, staring down; the officer on the quay turning, almost crouched, with horror; the two sailors on the deck leaning over the rail, their heads together.
Then he heard Amelie’s sob, and the officer was at her side; one of the sailors was shouting something over his shoulder and the other was dropping a rope into the narrow gap between the ship and the quay.
Yashim glanced down. Palewski was at his shoulder, and Yashim heard him murmur: “I just don’t believe it.”
He raised his head. The officer was helping Amelie to her feet, urging her gently up the gangplank. A band of sailors with crowbars in their hands were at the top, waiting to come down.
“Please, madame! Please, just come this way!”
The sailors streamed down the gangplank. They set their muscled arms against the wooden walls of the ship, planted their feet on the quay, and began to heave.
“Loose the stern warps! Give us room!” There were shouts, more orders; other sailors appeared. A man began to slide down a rope with bare feet.
Amelie, sagging on the officer’s arm, passed the ship’s rail and turned her head. Yashim felt her glance sweep over him to fix on something farther away, and he was about to glance around when Amelie gave a curious little jerk of her head. She was standing against the sun; he blinked, dazzled: for a moment it had looked as though she had smiled. When he next saw clearly, the officer was coaxing her onto the ship and in a few seconds she had disappeared from sight.
Yashim heard a sharp crack behind him, and turned to see the barouche start off. He thought he recognized a face at the window, the face of a woman with strong, dark brows; but it was only a fleeting glimpse, and he could not be sure.
Palewski took him by the elbow. “How did it happen?” he said, aghast.
Yashim began walking slowly in the carriage’s wake. After a few moments he raised his head and spoke to the air.
“Madame Lefevre thought the myth was real,” he said. Then he nodded sadly and turned to his friend. “Until she discovered that the reality was a myth.”
Palewski looked searchingly into Yashim’s face. “It wasn’t an accident, was it? She pushed him in.”
Yashim bit his lip. “Let’s just say that Madame Lefevre was a very determined woman.”
And he began to walk again, uphill through the dusty streets of Pera.
125
“I thought it was you,” Yashim said. “At first.”
He heard the ticking of the clocks, the rustle of Madame Mavrogordato’s silks, the chink of her spoon on the saucer as she laid it down very slowly.
“It should have been me,” she said. “Revenge is a dish-”
“Eaten better when cold, yes. I’ve heard that phrase. I don’t believe in it, either.”
Madame Mavrogordato narrowed her eyes and glared at Yashim. “When I heard that he had died-that he had been killed in the street? I didn’t believe it. That was not how it would happen-to him. He had more lives than a cat.”
More skins than a snake, Yashim thought.
Madame Mavrogordato leaned forward. “But they said it was him. Why?”
Yashim put his fingers together. “He was carrying Lefevre’s bag. The dogs had got to him-there was very little left. Except that he had perfect teeth. I wondered about that. Lefevre spoke with a lisp. Later, I learned that he had lost two teeth in a brawl-at Missilonghi.”
Some expression Yashim could not catch passed across the godlike face.
“Then what happened? Who was he?”
Yashim shrugged. “A man Millingen sent to fetch Lefevre off the ship. Millingen wanted Lefevre out of harm’s way, so he had him confined in a house somewhere down by the docks.” He hesitated, wondering whether he should say what he suspected: that her supposed son, the impatient Alexander, had been his jailer.
“Someone else was supposed to bring Lefevre’s bag to the doctor’s house,” he said finally. “A servant. He was unlucky: the killers tracked him down. But they got the wrong man.”
Madame Mavrogordato nodded slightly. “And Millingen? Why did he want Lefevre hidden?”
Yashim shifted slightly in his seat and sighed. “Dr. Millingen learned that Lefevre’s life had been threatened. He, too, believed that axiom about revenge.”
“So he thought I had ordered his death?”
“They were friends, once. And Millingen, of course, was interested in the relics. He expected Lefevre to tell him what he knew, in return for saving his life. The Ca d’Oro is one of your ships, isn’t it?”
Madame Mavrogordato gave a brief nod.
“When Millingen’s man was killed,” Yashim went on, “and identified as Lefevre, Millingen decided to say nothing about it. At first, I suppose, he thought he had diverted you. But later, when other people died, he realized what I had guessed-that it wasn’t you at all.”
Madame Mavrogordato’s lips moved into a thin smile. “But when it happened, when it really did happen, it was a woman. It would take a woman, Yashim efendi: Max Meyer was not a man just anyone could kill.”
“Four men died first, on his account.”
Madame Mavrogordato drew back her head. “Four men, efendi? You think-only four?”
She turned her head to fix him with her dark eyes, and he met them with a jolt of recognition.
“You can believe what you want to,” she almost spat. “Millingen-what an English gentleman! A bad show, he thinks, Dr. Meyer cutting loose like that. Leaving his young wife behind, as well. Shocking behavior! I don’t think Millingen would recommend him to his London club.”
She was almost shaking. Yashim couldn’t tell if it was with anger or contempt.
“But I knew that man. You should have heard what he said to me, the promises he made, the innocence he tore apart with his bare hands like a veil in front of my eyes. He bared me to the world, then spat upon me and turned away.” She lowered her voice, and two tears ran down her cheeks. “The man who could betray me like that-he could betray anyone. The Turks caught him, I’m sure of that. And he sold them Missilonghi, in return for his own miserable life. He sold us all, Yashim efendi. And you talk of four men dead. Four men!”
She stood up and went to the windows, wiping her hands across her cheeks.
“I’m so glad she killed him, Yashim efendi. I am so very, very grateful.”
She put out a hand, to touch the curtains. Yashim heard a knock at the door of the apartment.
Madame Mavrogordato’s fist balled around the silk. “She must have hated him very much,” she said.
The knock came again, louder. The woman at the window turned her head. “Come!”
The footman entered the apartment and bowed. He glanced at Yashim.
“Hanum,” he faltered. “The sultan is dead.”
Madame Mavrogordato turned her face away. “Have the shutters drawn at the front of the house, Dmitri.”
“Yes, hanum.”
“The groom will know to put crepe on the carriage. Also the horses’ bridles. Ask the cook to see that there is enough for tomorrow, before the markets close. Monsieur Mavrogordato will eat at home. That is all.”
“I will see to it, hanum.”
When the footman had gone, neither of them spoke for several minutes.
“The sultan is dead,” Madame Mavrogordato said at last. “Long live the sultan.”
Yashim stared at his hands. He caught the irony in her tone, but he was thinking of someone else.
He got to his feet. Madame Mavrogordato had closed her eyes and between clenched teeth she gave out a strangled moan.
126
Across the Golden Horn, in a dilapidated mansion close to the Grande Rue, a man stood listening at an open window.
“So that’s that,” he said at last, so quietly that the girl in the room could only imagine he had spoken. She set the tray down carefully on the desk.
From the windows she heard the distant muezzins calling the prayer for the dead.