“THAT’S SUCH BEAUTIFUL PAPER. It’s handmade, isn’t it? It smells almost like cherries, but a little more sour. Yes, sour cherries perhaps. The wild kind. Are sour cherries bright red or burgundy? In fact, I’ve never eaten a sour cherry. A Russian friend of mine told me about them once. They have them in Russia and in your country, too. How strange! Wild cherries. That’s kind of an odd thing to do, insisting on eating sour cherries when we have sweet ones. I know that I’m talking through my hat when I prattle on about the wildness of sour cherries when I’ve never even eaten one and, in any case, I’m used to the sweet ones. I say, that sourness must leave quite a zingy feeling in your mouth. That paper is handmade, right? There’s a kind of wildness about it too, and while the colour is a bit dull, it feels so nice against your fingertips.
“One night I dreamt about a cherry orchard. Sometimes when I don’t know what to draw I try to fall asleep so that I’ll be whisked away by dreams. That way I’ll see what I should be drawing. It’s really not a bad technique. But it only works if I can fall asleep.”
Céline had burst into the room as quickly as she was talking. She fell silent for a moment, as if waiting for Sahir’s approval to continue, and in the meantime Celal took the opportunity to stand up and face her.
Céline took him by the shoulders and gently pushed him back into the chair.
“My dear Celal, don’t bother. Of course, we’ve been wondering about what it would be like to meet each other. Expectation dazzles the eyes and you may feel a desire to pursue whatever has stirred your desires. But you should turn a deaf ear to that urge. Eyes are for seeing and that should be enough. Just look at Sahir Bey here. He is content with his life.”
Looking into Sahir’s grey eyes, Celal asked, “Well, aren’t you going to introduce your guests?”
A silky red handkerchief in Sahir’s jacket pocket seemed to rise and daub at his moist eyelashes of its own accord.
“Celal, how much better could we get to know each other?” Céline asked. “When you wanted to know about the nape of my neck, you described the wife of an Italian composer at the palace in complete detail, with one exception: her neck. The same would go for the arse of that Ethiopian woman, which you sketched in the briefest of terms. To be honest, the way you played that little game of yours made me feel as if someone was spying on me through a hole in the wall, waiting for me to pull up my skirt.
“It’s like sleep. You know, sometimes sleep is a steep slope. If you’re at the top, it’s easy, like gliding down a slide. If I can’t sleep, how am I supposed to dream, and how am I supposed to see what I’m supposed to draw? I also imagine caves. A cave filled with countless bats hanging upside down. I close my eyes. The bats squeak and my voice becomes one with theirs. I sprout wings and my back itches a little but then the steep slope angles down… And there you have it, I’m asleep.”
Sahir was standing there, still holding the handkerchief to his eyes. For a moment Celal was unable to summon the courage to look back at Céline.
He said, “Well, it sounds like a lot of work. After all that, you deserve to have the most fascinating of dreams.”
“Celal, would you believe it? I’ve never actually dreamt, not once. I lied because I envy people who dream. I’ve never dreamt of a cherry orchard. But I’d rather believe that I had and had then forgotten about it. I never dream. Jean once told me the silliest thing I ever heard—he said that I don’t dream because my ancestors were Atlantean. As you may know, Herodotus wrote about the history of the people of Atlantis. One of the most interesting things he said was that they never dreamt. You see, so it is possible that I’m half Atlantean. Jean was always coming up with such wild ideas. If my ancestors were from Atlantis, they had probably got their fill of revelry and settled in a quiet French village. I mean, my ancestors on my mother’s side. I’m willing to bet that being an Atlantean can only be passed down by mothers. My father wasn’t from the village. He was a city man, and a professor, too. A professor of physics, and geology, and chemistry. If you ask me, I think he dabbled in alchemy. I’m sure that he dreamt. If you don’t dream, why would you throw yourself into solving the mysteries of the universe?”
As Celal listened to her, he realized that Céline was not just beautiful—she was stunning. She had deep-blue eyes that caught your gaze and refused to let go. Her cheeks had a pinkness typical of the villagers on her mother’s side, and they tapered to a slightly pointed chin. Thick blonde curls framed her slender neck, resting on her shoulders.
Celal’s dream illustrator, now finally standing before him in the flesh, was wearing a black dress in the Native American style that was embroidered with red stripes from the collar to the hem. As she stood there looking at Celal, she was thumping a tomahawk into her palm. Celal found it difficult to think of anything to say at first. At last he managed, “Indeed, that is handmade paper. I went to great lengths to have it shipped from abroad. A lot of people think that our art is lacking in morals, that it is crude and coarse. But there’s an excitement to doing crude work of the highest calibre. I am of the belief that a true aesthetic consists of the right balance of coarseness and pleasure.”
Céline stopped swinging the tomahawk. Celal took a step towards her and said, “I think that your drawings, which provide the greatest of pleasure, are perfect in that regard. Primo, people always opt for pleasurable coarseness over coarse pleasures. Secundo, your troubles with sleep are of no great interest to me. That is to say, at least right now. Tertio, and most important, is the matter of Jean’s death. How did you know him? But before broaching those issues, common sense dictates that I first ask you: why are you dressed up like a native of the Americas?”
“A true Ottoman Sherlock Holmes… Is that what you think you are? Methodological, and wild like cherries, yet endowed with the cunning of a man from the East. I couldn’t have come up with a more clichéd, commonplace character.”
“Well, madame, I’d say that’s no worse than being dressed up like a Native American in a luxurious apartment in Paris. That, I’d say, is the ultimate commonplace.”
“Ha, that’s precisely the Oriental slyness I was talking about. Celal, do you know what ordinariness is? A reality that has lost its vivacity, novelty and ability to surprise, in the end becoming a mere formula. Perhaps a little like a still life, don’t you think? The outfit I’m wearing is for a modern still life. Sahir enjoys photography and he likes to take photographs of his dearest friends in, let’s say, novel ways. Sahir, isn’t that true?”
Sahir was gazing out of the window, his attention elsewhere. He got up and closed the curtains, plunging the living room into darkness.
Celal turned to Sahir.
“Sir, listening to this lady’s sweet chatter some other time would give me more pleasure that you can imagine. After all, I have always been a great admirer of the illustrations in my books. I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t imagined coming to Paris and meeting her. Normally, I am a man who has much time to spare. However, now I have pressing matters to which I must attend. I’m sure you are quite aware that the play you wrote and the story you told me have aroused my interest very much indeed, and I would like to thank you for your hospitality. But if I’m not offered a convincing explanation for why I’ve been led here, our last communication will consist of the thanks I have extended to you.”
Sahir silently tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket and furrowed his brow. Celal started heading down the hall towards the front door, and as he passed by Céline he took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of Muscat grapes. As he turned the doorknob, Sahir said, “My dear Celal, are you fond of circuses?”
Celal paused.
Sahir approached him and said, “Come now, you can’t really dislike circuses,” offering Celal a clown-like grin that stretched from ear to ear.
“Going to the circus is one thing, but being in one is quite another. Celal, I was in fact making you a job offer. I do believe that being part of a circus that is dedicated t
o a lofty cause will be good for everyone involved. Of course, you are free to go, but please hear me out first.”
“On one condition.”
Céline called out from the living room, “And what condition might that be?”
“Tell me what happened to Jean.”
Sahir guided Celal back to the living room.
“I promise I’ll tell you everything I know. Jean loved the circus, and I’m sure that you will too.”
Céline threw a pink shawl of twisted silk over her bare shoulders and stretched out on the carpet, propping her head up with one hand. Celal sat down on one of the dining chairs.
“Did Jean work for the circus?”
Sahir sighed. “No, he was working for me. You must work hard if you want to bring peace into the world. We’ve been trying to do business as far afield as we can. Please don’t think that I’m exaggerating when I say this, but Jean was involved in what I could call the shadier side of our business. The side where even the slightest altercation can have far-reaching consequences. I’ve been searching high and low for clues about what happened to him. I hope that I will soon come upon a satisfactory answer. I won’t lie to you—my relationship with Jean had soured recently. That’s why the police suspect that I had something to do with his disappearance. I need to find his murderer as soon as possible, so that I can get the police off my back. If you can give me a little time, I’ll return the money that was stolen from you.”
Celal shook his head. “It seems to me that Jean’s murder is far from being a simple matter. The police don’t seem to suspect you. After all, I was the one who was taken into custody so that your play could be passed on to me by none other than the Police Commissioner, who, it seems, is in your pocket.”
“It’s the same in every country. If you have clout, if need be you can always find someone to grease the wheels or throw a spanner in the works. The Commissioner is one of those people. For the time being he is keeping me out of the investigation. I guessed that you would come to France when you heard about Jean’s death, so I asked the Commissioner to keep an eye on the passenger records at the port. But you had set off before Jean was killed. Of course, I arranged for the Commissioner to give you that notebook. I must confess, I wanted to surprise you and make sure that you were intrigued. Please forgive me. Eventually this business is going to come back to me. That’s why I have to work out what happened before the police do. Jean was quite the maverick, and he probably thought it would be humiliating to come to me for help. Please believe me, Celal, when I tell you that Jean and Céline are precious to me, and I owe it to Pierre to look after them. I won’t have any peace of mind until I solve this mystery.”
Céline said, “None of us will have any peace of mind. But it’s almost morning, and I’m starving. Can we please have something to eat?”
There was a button at the end of the table. Sahir reached over and pressed it twice, and there was a faint ringing in the back of the apartment. A few moments later a butler appeared, set a covered tray on the table, and then disappeared as quickly as he’d come. Sahir, Celal and Céline ate breakfast in silence.
Celal said, “I’m going to try to trust you, Sahir Bey. If I were in your position, I’d make sure I kept my word. Please don’t disappoint me or the memory of Jean.”
Sahir had given Celal a fake passport, identity card and military papers. Celal stacked them up as he sat at the table, running his fingers over the pages in silence. After drumming his fingers on the table for a while, he smiled and pretended to introduce himself: “Petar Jovanovic, how do you do?… The name’s Petar Jovanovic…”
He tied up the stack of papers with a thick piece of string. Weighing the bundle in his hand, he turned to Sahir and said, “As if that whole business of being Şerif Efendi wasn’t enough… Now I’m supposed to be Petar Jovanovic! Would it have overtaxed your imagination to come up with a more interesting name than that?”
“Well, my boy, in addition to playing the part of Petar Jovanovic, an officer in the Serbian army, you will also be playing the role of the Colossus, our circus’s animal-skin-clad strongman. What more could you want?”
“Very well, being the Colossus will be easy. I’ve been surprising people with feats of strength since I was a child. But being an officer? Especially with a name like that… It grates on the ears.”
“If I were you, I’d be more worried about the circus act. Going on stage is anything but easy. In the end, acting isn’t just a matter of pretending to be someone else, and being in a circus act is pure acting.”
“Yes, but I’m going to be putting on an act to play the role of Petar Jovanovic, too.”
“Sure, but aside from two of our contacts no one will know that you’re playing a role, so you’ll feel more at ease than any stage actor has ever felt—precisely because you won’t be taking to the stage. What makes actors unique is that they can play a role fully aware of the fact that the audience knows that they’re acting. Nearly everyone could act if no one knew that they were acting, just like everyone can sing when there’s no audience.”
“That’s all very well; but I’ll have to speak Serbian, since I’m going to be in the Serbian army.”
“Celal, you’re a child of the Balkans. You can already speak Serbian and you have a knack for languages. Jean told me that you were translating some books of Serbian fairy tales just to pass the time. Just make sure you roll your ‘r’s like a Frenchman. It’ll make things easier.”
“Why?”
“You’re going to turn up quite suddenly, so we’ve created a past for you. You’ll have to be convincing enough that people will come to trust you, and mysterious enough to inspire a little admiration. So, listen carefully. You, Petar Jovanovic, are not really from Serbia. You’re from a family of Bosnian Serbs. That’ll make it easier for you to get on with the more radical officers in the army. They’re all obsessed with saving the Serbs who have been taken captive by the Habsburgs. Your father went to France to study history and married a Frenchwoman there. He taught history at a high school, and died at a young age. You joined the military academy so that you wouldn’t be a burden on your mother. As you’ve seen, all your documents testify to that story. You know that some people in the government wield great influence. If anyone doubts the authenticity of your papers and questions anyone at the consulate or even the municipality in Paris, people in the highest ranks will say that your papers are real.”
Celal sat back in his chair and asked, “Am I going to pretend to be half French because it was easier to get the papers sorted out here?”
“Partly. And if you get in trouble, you speak French like it’s your native language, which will make your story all the more convincing. But the real reason is Karageorgevic. He’s the head of the dynasty competing with Obrenovic, the Serbian king. He, too, graduated from the French military academy. If anyone asks, tell them that you’ve never had the honour of meeting him. But we’re quietly going to put out word among our men that you’re working for Karageorgevic.”
“That’s a great tactic if your goal is to get me executed.”
“Sarcasm will certainly come in handy when you’re playing the part of Petar Jovanovic. Our men will relish the thought that you’re working for the Karageorgevic dynasty in one way or another. Certain elements in the army are plotting a coup. They want to take down Obrenovic and put Karageorgevic in power. But they have doubts about whether or not Karageorgevic will go along with the plan. The poor guy is too genteel for that kind of excitement. Also, they’re in dire need of help from France. If they don’t get the French on their side against the Habsburgs, their revolution will most certainly be short-lived. Your presence there will be seen as a sign that Karageorgevic and the French are in favour of the coup. So please, don’t worry about your safety. We’ve already taken measures to ensure that no harm will come to you.”
“Sahir Bey?”
“What is it, Celal?”
“I’d like you to be open with me.”
“I’ve been as open with you as I possibly can.”
“Why am I going to Serbia to help spark a revolution with a group of people I’ve only just heard about? If you ask me, this all seems more like a shadowy plot than a struggle for peace.”
“So you’re happy to be the Colossus at the circus, but the part about Serbia concerns you, is that right?”
“At least working at the circus sounds somewhat entertaining.”
“I’m not sure which is going to be more entertaining. But at the very least, stirring up coups lends itself more to improvisation. The business of revolutions is all about experimentation and drills. Celal, every country in the world, and I mean every single country, is being dragged to the brink of war. If we don’t stop it, a major war is going to break out in ten, maybe fifteen years. It’ll be a war unlike any other. The world is a smaller place than it’s ever been before. Now you can go to places in a week or two that used to take months to reach. And the same holds true for armies. There’s a very good chance that if war does break out, it will engulf the entire world. We’re no longer living in the age of Alexander the Great, Caesar, Genghis Khan or Suleiman the Magnificent. If a war breaks out, there’s no power out there that can come along with an ‘I say, what seems to be the problem here?’ and bring it to an end. Such a war would be more terrifying than we can imagine.
“Now, Karageorgevic doesn’t have his eye on the Serbian throne, but if the revolutionaries promise to hand power to a new parliament, along with a new constitution that guarantees freedom for everyone, he will go along with their plan. Be assured, Celal, his aim is to be the last Serbian king and pass his power over to the people through a parliament. But with or without Karageorgevic, the plotters will go ahead with their coup. They’re champing at the bit, waiting for a chance to bring down the old monarchy. And if we help them to succeed in Serbia, the other kingdoms of Europe will soon fall in turn. If we don’t bring those kingdoms down now, they will ultimately perish in a world war. But if the people take power in one country after another… everywhere, from London to Istanbul… that will be the first step towards eternal peace. And if we can build the peace machine when the time is right—”
The Peace Machine Page 6
