“I have a duty, as the senior lady in the palace, to pass on a warning. The harem has many rules, as you know, and many traditions. Some of these ensure the smooth running of the sultan’s household. Some are upheld for your comfort and protection.”
The girls stood still, listening.
“There is one rule above all that you will be expected to obey, and that is the rule of silence. We are a family. We will have our disagreements and our rivalries, no doubt, as a family will. But what goes on here, in the sultan’s harem, is a matter for us and for no one else. You will see and hear things that will surprise you. Perhaps they will even upset you. But these are for us, and for us only. Do you understand?”
The girls murmured assent. They understood they had to keep their secrets.
Now, they hoped, the lady Talfa would lead them all upstairs, out of this dank cellar.
But the lady Talfa had turned, swinging the lantern. “The penalty for a girl who talks, or infringes the most serious regulations, is severe and horrible. Look.”
The lamplight settled, and the girls craned their heads, peering into the gloom.
“Do you see the table?” Talfa demanded.
They nodded. It was a plain wooden table with four stout legs. On the table lay several coils of thin cord.
“Can you see that the table stands on a block of stone?”
Talfa crossed to the table and set the lantern down.
“A girl who disobeys the regulations here will soon find herself on this table. She will be strapped down, unable to move. Then, one of the eunuchs will engage the engine.”
The girls were wide awake now. They shuffled closer together, unwilling to come too close to where the lady Talfa stood behind the table like a priestess at the altar.
“The engine, hanum?”
“A turning engine. When the lever goes down, the table will start to spin. Around and around, faster and faster. The stone here”—she tapped her slippered foot—“slides back, and as the table turns it begins to sink down through the floor.”
She paused, as if she expected a question: but the girls were far too nervous to ask it.
“Under this floor there is a tunnel, from the Bosphorus.” She held up a finger and rotated it in the air. “Once it is set in motion, the engine cannot be stopped. The table sinks into the water, and the girl is drowned.”
The girls stared at the table wide-eyed.
“Some of you may have heard about this place already. It would be better that you had not: the girl who spoke of it—well.” She pursed her lips; there was no need to spell it out. “None of you, I am sure, would want to make the same experiment.”
She picked up the lantern and walked back to the steps. The girls behind her jostled for position, each of them trying to climb hard on the lady Talfa’s heels. No one wanted to be the last to leave that cold, dark vault.
11
WHEN Mullah Dede knocked on the wicket gate, a hatch slid back instantly. Eyes surveyed them through the grille. A moment later, the door opened and they stepped inside.
The monk quickly shot the bolts home and leaned back against the door.
“I am Brother Palamedes,” he gasped. “I will take you to the abbot.”
Brother Palamedes led the way through a door in the side of the gateway, and they entered a large, cool room with a flagged floor and a vaulted ceiling. In the middle stood a long oak table, flanked by benches, and at its head stood the abbot.
“You are most welcome,” he said. “You will take coffee?”
Mullah Dede smiled. “I do not touch stimulants,” he said. “But if my friend Yashim wishes … ?”
Yashim shook his head. “Thank you, no.”
The abbot leaned on the table. “For several days, my friends, the brothers have been falling sick. They have stomach pains, vomiting. One of our oldest monks has died.”
Mullah Dede murmured an invocation.
“In the end, I had to suspect the water. So yesterday we sent a monk down the well to investigate. He found the body of a man.”
The mullah raised his eyebrows.
The abbot nodded. “He was—far gone, efendi. It was by no means easy to bring him out of the well, and so—” He wrinkled his nose and snorted, as if expelling an unhappy memory. “We are at a loss.”
“But you informed the civil authorities?”
“We sent word to the governor, but at a time like this …”The abbot spread his hands, and shrugged. “The sultan has died. Perhaps this death seems small. We need to bury him, God rest his soul.”
Mullah Dede coughed. “The people are saying that the man is a Muslim.”
“We do not think he is a Muslim, mullah,” the abbot said. “If he were to be a Muslim, that would cause difficulties. It would be out of our hands.”
The mullah nodded, and stroked his white beard. “I am thinking of the man’s soul.”
Yashim said: “You have taken steps to determine the man’s faith?”
The abbot glanced at Brother Palamedes. “It is—indistinct, Yashim efendi. He must have been dead for quite some time.”
Yashim squared his shoulders. “It would be better if you let me see.”
“It is not a good sight.”
“I imagine not.” Yashim paused. “A riot on the island would not be pretty, either. Anger feeds on speculation.”
The abbot nodded. “Very well,” he said, in a low voice. “Mullah Dede?”
“You understand my position,” Mullah Dede said. “If the dead man is a Muslim, he must be buried with the appropriate prayers, and in the proper place. While there is doubt, speaking as a man of faith, this seems to me to be the safest course. But we will let Yashim efendi decide. I do not wish to make trouble for the monastery, but neither can I allow a Muslim to go unburied.”
The sun beat down mercilessly on the first court, bleaching it almost to invisibility as they stepped out of the dark gateway.
“I told the abbot we should have dealt with this ourselves,” the monk burst out. “I am sorry, Mullah Dede, but it is true.”
12
BROTHER Palamedes turned the key in the lock, and stood back.
“Once, efendi, is quite enough.”
Yashim reached up and tugged the end of his turban loose, unwound it several turns, and wrapped the length of cloth over his mouth and nose. He pushed the door.
On the floor of the empty room, lit by a shaft of sunlight streaming through a barred window, the corpse lay on its back in a puddle of water. It seemed, at first glance, to have melted into the floor. Loose skin sagged around its legs and arms, the head a deliquescent lump.
Yashim squatted down by the body, trying to see a division where the skin met the clothing. The man’s face was like a cauliflower streaked with pale hair: it told Yashim little. There were fair Muslims, and fair Christians; on balance, perhaps, more fair Christians. His skin had wrinkled in the long immersion under water, soft and ridged like the white brains of sheep laid out for sale in the butchers’ market. A line of tighter skin ran from the dark mass of the man’s mouth toward his eye, and the flesh had bulged over it. It looked like an old scar.
Yashim gritted his teeth and pushed his fingers quickly into the base of the man’s neck. He breathed shallowly, each breath bringing the sweet odor of decay into his mouth. The skin was soft. He made his mind a blank, working his fingers toward the nub of a stitched hem. As far as he could see, the man was wearing underclothes—a sleeveless vest and a pair of drawers. He felt a seam and dragged at it, loosening the cloth from the soft flesh that spilled over it.
From his belt Yashim drew a small knife, took hold of the triangle of cloth in his left hand, and slid the blade beneath it, working from the man’s neck along the top of his shoulder. The cloth parted easily.
As he worked to undress the corpse, he gagged: once he went back to the door and leaned against it, sweat prickling his eyes, to draw breath. The monk stood with his back to the doorway; only the mullah regarded him sorrowf
ully, the corners of his mouth firmly turned down in sympathy for Yashim’s plight. Yashim held up a hand to tell him to wait a little longer.
As he was cutting away the cloth along the man’s ribs, the arm rolled slowly back. Yashim stared for a few moments, frowning.
When it was done, he came out into the sunshine and felt instantly nauseated, the heat seeming to suck at his stomach, so that he heaved and retched.
The monk brought a basin and a clean cloth. Yashim scrubbed his hands.
“As far as I can tell, he was a Christian,” he said finally. He rinsed the knife and polished it hard on the cloth, until it gleamed, and stuck it back into his belt. “Fair-haired, uncircumcised. Not more than forty—maybe a lot younger. Fit, too. A big man.”
The concern on the mullah’s face faded slightly. “I am happy to accept your judgment, Yashim efendi. At prayers, I can tell the believers, and the hubbub will die down.” He turned to the monk. “I am glad, for all our sakes.”
At the gate Brother Palamedes peered through the peephole.
“There are still some men outside, mullah.”
“I will speak to them, then.” Mullah Dede stepped out into the sunshine.
“I’ll trouble you for a drink of water,” Yashim said.
In the kitchens, lit by high windows, the monks were preparing the evening meal. They looked at Yashim curiously, but said nothing. Brother Palamedes fetched him a beaker and filled it from a jug with a long spout.
Yashim accepted the beaker, then hesitated. “Not the same well?”
The monk shook his head, unsmiling. “This is from the inner well, efendi.”
Yashim drank. “There is one thing I do not understand, Brother Palamedes. May we speak, privately?”
The monk hesitated. “I can take you to my cell, efendi.”
The cells were built in two rows facing a narrow, sunless courtyard: as soon as he saw them Yashim recalled the apartments set aside for eunuchs in the imperial harem. Brother Palamedes’s cell contained a narrow bed, a desk, and a wooden stool. On the desk lay a thick book bound in cracked leather, with a flimsy notebook beside it. Beside the notebook lay a quill pen. A bottle of ink stood at the far corner of the desk, beside an earthenware jug and an empty glass. On the wall above the bed hung a crucifix mounted on wood, with a small plaque beneath it. There was nothing written on the plaque. The tiled floor glowed a dusky pink, worn into hollows by the passage of feet over many centuries.
“Who was he?”
The monk spread his hands. “Then xero.” I do not know.
“An utter stranger.”
“We live a secluded life, Yashim efendi, but of course this island is our home. The dead man is not a priest, nor a monk. He is not a Muslim or a Jew, as you have established. We know of no one of the faith—I mean, our faith—missing on the island, or indeed on any of the islands.”
“How did you bring him out of the well?”
“We made a sling of canvas. Brother Andrew guided the man’s body into the sling, and then we drew him up. And we put him where he is now.”
“Someone examined the body?”
Brother Palamedes puffed out his cheeks. “Examined? We could see he was dead.”
“We?”
“Brother Andrew and I laid the body on the floor.”
“And since then? Who else has seen the body?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, efendi. We sent to the governor, that’s all. We haven’t had a reply.”
“I understand. You laid the body on the floor, and since then no one has opened the door, until I came?”
“The body of a man is not a spectacle,” the monk replied, stiffly. “No one knew him.”
Yashim nodded, slowly. “You have not answered my question.”
The monk blinked. “Efendi?”
“Who saw the body, apart from you and Brother Andrew?”
Brother Palamedes wetted his lips. “I—I do not understand.”
“Your head may be weak—or not. But I think you have a strong stomach, brother.”
The monk was still.
“You cut a small patch off the man’s skin, from under his arm.”
Brother Palamedes sat down abruptly on the little bed. “I wanted—only—to avoid a scene,” he said in a small voice, folding his hands on his lap.
“A tattoo, perhaps?”
“Something like that.”
“Show me. Please.”
The monk shook his head. “I threw it away.”
Yashim bit his lip. His mouth felt dry. He reached for the earthenware jug.
Brother Palamedes snatched at the jug. “I will fetch some more water.”
But Yashim had already gripped the handle, and as the monk lunged he pulled away. Water slopped out of the mouth of the jug and splashed his wrist.
He splayed his fingers and tipped the jug upside down. The water cascaded onto the tiled floor.
When Yashim set the jug down, he was holding the flap of skin in his hand.
13
BROTHER Palamedes put his fingers across his face.
“Someone came to us, a week ago, maybe longer. Asking about a friend who had gone missing. I thought—perhaps …”
He trailed off.
Yashim said: “Someone? Ortodox?” He meant someone of the Orthodox faith, the usual description for a Greek: the empire recognized people by their confession, not their race.
The hesitation was momentary. “A type of Ortodox, yes.”
Yashim widened his eyes. “A type of Orthodox,” he echoed. It could mean Armenian, or Serbian. A glance at the monk’s face told him it was none of those. “Russian,” he said.
Brother Palamedes clasped his hands together. “Please, Yashim efendi. At Hristos we are men of the church. We do not seek the friendship of the Russians. Believe me. We welcome the friendship of all men but—we must be careful.”
Yashim glanced at the pale slip of skin lying on the table, and shuddered. For years, Russia had been stirring up the Greeks, encouraging them to rebellion, disturbing their age-old compact with the Ottoman state.
“Who did you intend to tell?”
The monk twisted his fingers in his lap. “No one. That is—we want no trouble, Yashim efendi. These days anything may be taken amiss. You understand.”
Yashim grunted. He picked up the monk’s pen and pushed the skin flat against the tabletop.
“It’s not a tattoo.”
“No, efendi. I do not know what it is. But a mark, of some kind.”
14
YASHIM found Palewski fast asleep, with Pan Tadeusz across his face.
“I can’t believe it, Yash,” Palewski said at last. “You seem to have prevented a sectarian riot, identified a corpse, and thrown suspicion on the Russians, all while I was drinking my pear syrup. Incredible.”
Yashim unwrapped his handkerchief. “Do you know what this is?”
Palewski raised his eyes to Yashim’s. “No. But after all that, you’re going to tell me that it is a piece of human skin.”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Oh, Christ,” Palewski said. He sagged back against the cushion. “I’m sorry, Yashim. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”
“It was taken from the man’s underarm. It shows something, I’m not sure what. A scar, maybe.”
Palewski was silent for a while. “Or a brand.”
“A brand?”
“A jail brand. Either that, or Russian army—which comes to much the same thing. Regimental badge, so to speak. Germans go for facial scars. Your Janissaries—they carried tattoos, didn’t they? The Russians can be pretty crude, as I think I’ve mentioned.”
“Under the arm?”
“Why not? The right people will always know where to look.”
“The monk cut it out, Palewski. Either because he wanted the body to remain unidentified, or—”
“Or the opposite. I don’t suppose he put it in his water jug to improve the taste.”
“He meant to preserve it.” Yashim frowned. “I should go back to Istanbul. Perhaps I can identify the mark.”
They sauntered down the avenue of limes and arrived at the quayside just in time to see the Istanbul ferry pull out.
Yashim kicked the ground.
“A couple of hours won’t make any difference,” Palewski said equably. “Let’s take a stroll and look for something to eat.”
They wandered off along the track that lined the shore, overhung with Judas trees. Small fishing boats with painted eyes were drawn up on the beach, watching them as they passed. On the rocks, fishermen sat mending their nets or cleaning the day’s catch.
Yashim sniffed the air.
“That smells good, my friends!”
A group of fishermen were sitting around a fire and dipping bread into a cauldron. “You are very welcome, kyrie. Join us. Take some bread, and have a little wine.”
An older man, with a fine crop of white curls, grinned and winked at Palewski. “For the Frankish kyrie, the wine is good.”
Yashim squatted gravely by the fire. Palewski settled like a cormorant on a rock. A boy was sent to the sea with a couple of tin plates. He presented them, clean and fresh, to the newcomers. The old fisherman ladled out some stew, and someone passed them a loaf of round bread, from which they broke pieces.
Palewski held his thimble of yellow wine to the light. “To your hospitality.” He drank; the men murmured their approval; his glass appeared refreshed.
Yashim was curious to taste the fishermen’s stew. He took several mouthfuls: it was strong, flavored with the wild thyme that grew farther up the shore, beyond the track.
“Tomato!” he exclaimed.
One of the younger men nodded. “I’ve seen them growing it, kyrie. It grows like a weed, when you know how, and it tastes good. Even raw.”
The old fisherman put up a stubby finger. “Raw, it’s no good.” He passed his hand across his belly. “It lies here, very cold. And gives my wife headache.”
An Evil Eye: A Novel Page 3
