Halfway through the second act, Preen slid gracefully into the seat beside Yashim. She put an elbow on the cafe table and spoke into her hand.
“Small world,” she said. “Your friend Alexander Mavrogordato just arrived.”
Yashim suppressed the urge to turn around. “Alone?”
“He’s with a man. A Frank. Older, short. Smoking a little cigar.”
Yashim exhaled slowly through his teeth. Onstage, a drowsy cobra was rising slowly from a basket while an Indian blew at it through a little pipe. The snake turned its head to follow the music. The Indian danced gravely around the basket. Yashim turned in his chair and saw Alexander Mavrogordato and Maximilien Lefevre, ne Meyer, watching the performance without speaking.
Lefevre’s eyes slid toward him.
The cobra’s head was now lifted high out of the basket, swaying on its thick, undulating body. Behind its head, the hood flattened and widened.
Lefevre and Yashim looked at one another. Without smiling, the Frenchman nodded and made a slight gesture of salute with his cigar.
Yashim shook his head. Then he blinked and turned his attention to the stage.
The charmer and the snake were now moving together; as the Indian swayed backward, the cobra leaned out toward him, its little tongue flicking in and out. The Indian slowly put out his hand, palm down, until the tips of his fingers were just below the cobra’s throat. Very gradually, to the soft notes of the pipe, the cobra laid his head on the man’s fingers.
Yashim watched in disgust as the man’s hand turned slowly black: the cobra was rippling forward onto the man’s wrist, its hood over his hand, slowly advancing out of its basket and up the extended arm, oozing upward from the basket to the charmer’s shoulder. The Indian continued to play his pipe with one hand, keeping his arm very still until the entire snake had ranged itself along the thickness of his arm. He turned and faced the crowd. There was a gasp as the snake’s head appeared over the charmer’s head and reared up, spreading its hood like a pagan crown.
The man and his snake did a little tour of the stage, bowing together; then the man reached up and took hold of the cobra by its head and slipped it back into the basket, clapping on the lid. The audience broke into applause.
“Come on, Yashim,” Preen said, nudging him with her elbow. “It’s only a snake. You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”
124
The ship’s bell clanked, and a squad of smartly dressed sailors stood to attention on the foredeck, apparently none the worse for their foray into Pera the night before. A belch of black soot drifted from the single stack; it drifted up through the furled shrouds and spars of the main-mast, and slowly vanished into the blue sky.
A fat coachman brought an elegant black-lacquered barouche to a stop on the cobbles. He held the reins firmly in his hand and turned his head to look at the Ulysse. No one got out.
At the foot of the gangplank a uniformed sailor exchanged glances with two other men, in singlets, waiting on deck.
Amelie Lefevre put out her hand. “Goodbye, ambassador.”
Palewski took her hand and stooped over it. “Goodbye, madame.” He nodded to Lefevre. “Doctor.”
Now she was looking at Yashim. There was a strange, almost dull, look in her eyes. The sun was in her hair, turning her ringlets to fire. She did not offer him her hand; instead, she placed it on her heart.
“The sultan, Yashim,” she said. “And the poet. I shan’t forget.”
Yashim smiled sadly. “Perhaps.”
Lefevre, he noticed, was glancing nervously around the quay. The gangplank screeched as the Ulysse rolled lightly in the current.
“I will remember your courage,” Yashim added.
“My courage,” Amelie repeated tonelessly. “But I believed in the relics, you see. I thought the myth was real.”
Dr. Lefevre took her elbow. He leaned slightly forward to catch Yashim’s eye; then he raised his cheroot and pointed it at him. “Pah!” He made a soft explosive sound with his lips and smiled crookedly. It seemed like a private joke.
Yashim stepped back and frowned.
Palewski raised his eyebrows and glanced at Yashim.
The uniformed sailor put out a protective arm to usher the couple onto the gangplank.
“Faites attention, monsieur ’dame,” he murmured.
Halfway up the gangplank, Amelie had not looked back. Lefevre was slightly ahead of her, his hand beneath her elbow, turning a little, when it all happened.
Perhaps it was the movement of the ship, perhaps the slippers-the slippers that Millingen had bought for her, with their pointed ends. Amelie stumbled. She pitched sideways, stretching out her arms, clutching at her husband for support.
By then it was already too late. With a sudden cry of alarm, Dr. Lefevre flailed his arms through the air, and then he was gone.
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.
Madam
e 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.
Palewski turned. The bottle on the tray was old and squat. Many years ago, a Polish nobleman had ordered it among a few dozen such from one of the best Cognac houses in France, to lay down in the cellars on his estate. That man was Palewski’s father. “It’s good Martell,” he’d say. “If in doubt, dump the paintings but hang on to the brandy.”
Palewski pulled out a penknife and slit the wax around the neck. He pulled the cork and poured a measure into each glass.
Gently he picked up both glasses by the stem.
Marta blushed. “Lord-I cannot-I-”
Palewski shook his head. “It’s to remember him by,” he said. “He ruled this empire for as long as I’ve known Istanbul. All your life, Marta.”
He held the glass to the light. “To Mahmut!”
“To Mahmut,” Marta echoed, smiling.
127
It was the noise that startled him, even before he saw the crowd: a murmur of voices like the sea. The halberdiers stood to attention in the gate, and in the First Court of the seraglio, where only a few days before he had walked in absolute stillness, Yashim found himself jostled and surrounded on all sides.
Sultan Mahmut was dead. In the faces that surrounded him Yashim saw expressions of anguish and despair; he read fear in one man’s eyes, and in the next, expectancy; he heard the murmur of the sutras, and laughter, and the cry of the corncob seller calling his wares. A distinguished pasha walked by in a swirl of cloak and leather, with his horse, a gray, curvetting at the groom’s hand on the bridle. An elderly man, bareheaded, lay spread-eagled facedown on the ground, as if he had fallen from the sky. A phalanx of small children stood silently against the wall. A yellow dog heaved itself up from the shade of a plane tree and stalked stiffly away, as if disgusted to have its sleep disturbed, while a man in a fez, with an enormous belly, wept openly on the shoulder of another man, dressed like a servant. Many people-Muslim, Armenian-counted their beads, and watched.
The sultan had died at Besiktas, like the jewel in a box; but here to Topkapi, to the ancient palace of the sultans, to the great old court of the people of the empire, the people came with their hopes and their regrets.
Yashim advanced through the crowd to the second gate. The halberdiers did not recognize him at first and lowered their pikes, but the key holder saw him and nodded him through. They walked in silence to the little door to the harem, with so much and so little to say.
He found Hyacinth sobbing in a little chamber off the corridor.
“Who’s with the valide, then?” he demanded.
Hyacinth raised his little red-rimmed eyes to his. “Oh, Yashim! We are all so very sad!”
“So I see,” Yashim said.
He found her alone and fully dressed, seated on the edge of the sofa with her hands in her lap.
“I hoped it would be you, Yashim. I see that you, too, refrain from weeping.”
Yashim said nothing.
“I’ve sent the rest of them away. I can’t bear to see their faces all crumpled up, the runny noses. Pure chicanery. They have no idea what will happen to me, so they are sorry for themselves. Th
ey have hearts like walnuts.”
Yashim suppressed a smile. “The First Court is full of people, Valide. It reminds me of the old days.”
“Yes?” The valide raised her head, as if to listen. Her silver earrings chinked together softly.
“It’s a strange thing, Yashim,” she said, in a surprisingly small voice. “I do nothing at all from day to day but grow old-yet I find that today of all days, I have nothing to do. I can only sit.”
Yashim rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Then he knelt at the valide’s side. “I have an idea,” he said.
128
The crowd in the First Court was denser than before, and it was only a sufi, with hands upraised and one eye on the second gate, who noticed two figures emerging from the sanctity of the inner court. Perhaps, if the sufi had stopped to think, he might have guessed the identity of the veiled woman who walked slowly, with a stick, supported by her undistinguished companion; but the sufi had deliberately emptied his mind of all thoughts, the better to concentrate on the ninety-nine names of God.
Yashim felt the valide’s grip tighten on his arm as they advanced toward the crowd, and took it as a good sign. It was impossible for them to speak over the shouts and murmurs of the mourners thronging that vast space, but he noticed the valide’s head turning to and fro as she observed the faces of the men who surrounded them, and now and then she stopped, for a better look. In this way the valide betrayed her particular interest in little children, boiled corn, the traditional ululations of Arab women, and the rather scrawny mount of a long-legged Albanian cavalryman in French trousers.
Yashim wondered, as they walked slowly along, whether they should go as far as the Topkapi gate. He had a daydream in which he led the valide through the gate and out into the square; by the fountain they would pick up a carriage and rattle down the streets to the Eminonu wharf, where he would hand the elderly Frenchwoman into a French ship and send her off to enjoy herself in Paris. It was a daydream he had sometimes indulged on his own account, but he startled himself now, as if he had committed a treasonable act. He began to wonder where, indeed, he should lead the valide. She showed no sign of wishing to go back, yet her weight on his arm was growing and she was evidently beginning to tire.
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