The young man flushed. He felt certain that he was being laughed at but could not quite understand the exchange. Perhaps he’d better just shut up for a while. More diplomatic. He folded his arms and sat stiffly on the upholstered seat, watching the Turk scribbling down lists.
After a minute he said, “Jolly bad business about the Janissaries, was it?”
Yashim looked up in surprise.
“For the Janissaries, yes,” he observed drily.
The boy nodded vigorously, as if Yashim had just made a profound remark.
“Whew! Yes! Rotten for them.”
He shook his head and raised his eyebrows.
“Not much fun, being burned alive,” Yashim murmured. Pas trop amusant.
The boy goggled dutifully. “Not my idea of amusement, certainly!” He lowered his head and gave a big laugh. Yashim carried on writing.
“I say,” the boy chirped up. “What do chaps do for amusement here, in Istanbul?”
He was leaning forward now, his hands dangling between his knees, with a screwed-up look on his face.
Yashim narrowed his eyes. When he spoke it was almost a whisper. “Well, some men use a dead sheep.”
The boy startled. “A sheep?”
“They cut it and remove its—what do you say—its bladder.”
The boy’s face was frozen into an expression of horror.
“One of them, it’s usually the strongest, puts his lips to the urethra—”
“Oh quite. I—I see. Please, it’s not what I meant.”
Yashim put on a puzzled expression.
“But don’t you play football in your country, too?”
The boy stared at him, then sagged.
“I’m sorry, yes, of course. I—I—” He was quite red in the face. “I think I’ll just go and get a glass of water. Please excuse me.”
Yashim gave a short smile and went back to the books.
He had found what he needed. They were, he imagined, only estimates, but if the figures were even roughly correct, they made for sobering reading.
How many Janissaries had died in the events of June 1826? A thousand, possibly, at the barracks. Several hundred more accounted for in the hunt that followed—say, five hundred. There had been hangings and executions, but surprisingly few, mostly of known ringleaders.
The rest had been allowed to melt away. Three of them, maybe a few more, had found jobs at the Soup Makers’ Guild, as Yashim knew.
Which still left, if these figures were a guide, a lot of men unaccounted for. Living quiet, unobtrusive lives somewhere. Bringing up families. Working for a living. Well, that would be a shock to the system.
Yashim sat back on the chair and stared at his totals. A lot of rueful and regretful men.
About fifty thousand of them, in fact.
29
****************
THE imam winced. Could he plead another engagement? He knew that the eunuch prayed in his mosque, but they had never spoken until today. He’d approached him after the noon prayer and asked for a word. And the imam had inclined his head, quite graciously, before he realized who was asking.
As the eunuch fell into stride behind him, the imam reflected that he had no right to withhold his sympathy, or his advice. Yet he viewed their discussion with foreboding.
How could a man be a good Muslim, if so many of those avenues by which a Muslim approached his God were, so to say, already blocked? The imam considered himself a teacher, certainly. But so much of his teaching was bound up with considerations of family: the blessing of children, the regulation that was appropriate to married life. He advised fathers about their sons, and sons about their fathers. He taught men—and women— how to conduct themselves in marriage. Straying husbands. Jealous wives. They came to him as a judge, with questions. It was his job to consider the questions and answer yes or no; usually it was through questions that they reached an understanding of their position. He guided them to the right questions: along the way they had to examine their own conduct, in the light of the Prophet’s teaching.
What could he discuss with a creature who had no family?
They reached his room. A divan, a low table, a pitcher on a brass tray. A few cushions. The room was sparsely furnished, but it was still sumptuous. Running from the floor to shoulder height, the walls were decorated with a fabulous treasury of Iznik tile work, centuries old, from the best period of the Iznik kilns. The blue geometric designs seemed to have been applied only yesterday: they shone brilliant and pure, catching the sunlight that streamed through the windows overhead. In the corner, a black stove threw out a welcome warmth.
The imam gestured to the divan, while he stood with his back to the stove.
The eunuch smiled, a little nervously, and settled himself on the divan, kicking off his sandals before tucking his feet up beneath his burnoose. Inwardly, the imam groaned. This, he thought, was going to be difficult. He ran a fingertip across one eyebrow.
“Speak.”
His voice rumbled: Yashim was impressed. He was used to meeting people with something to hide, their speech marred by doubt and hesitancy, and here was a man who could give him answers stamped with authority. To be an imam was to live without uncertainty. For him, there would always be an answer. The truth was palpable. Yashim envied him his security.
“I want to know about the Karagozi,” he said.
The imam stopped polishing his eyebrow as it raised itself away from his fingertip.
“I beg your pardon?”
Yashim wondered if he had said the wrong thing. He said it again. “The Karagozi.”
“They are a forbidden sect,” said the imam.
Not only the wrong thing, thought Yashim. The wrong man. He began to get up, thanking the imam for his clarification.
“Stay, please. You want to know about them?” The imam had put up a hand. A discussion about doctrine now, that was another case entirely. The imam felt a great weight roll from his shoulders. They needn’t talk about lust or sodomy or whatever it was that eunuchs wished to talk about when they visited their imam. Whether it was possible for a man without bollocks to enjoy the houris of paradise.
Yashim resumed his seat.
“The Karagozi were prominent in the Janissary Corps,” the imam remarked. “Perhaps you know this?”
“Yes, of course. I know that they were unorthodox, too. I want to know how.”
“Sheikh Karagoz was a mystic. This was long ago, before the Conquest, when the Ottomans were still a nomadic people. They had a few mosques, here and there in the towns and cities they had conquered from the Christians. But the fighters were ghazi, holy warriors, and they were not used to living in cities. They hungered after truth, but it was difficult for teachers and imams to stay among them. Many of these Turkish ghazi listened to their old babas, their spiritual fathers, who were wise men. I say wise: they were not all enlightened.”
“They were pagan?”
“Pagan, animist, yes. Some, however, were touched by the words of the Prophet, peace be on him. But they incorporated into their doctrines a great deal of the old traditions, many esoteric teachings, even errors they had gathered up among the unbelievers. You must remember that those were tumultuous times. The little Ottoman state was growing, and many Turks were attracted to it. Every day, they encountered new lands, new peoples, unfamiliar faiths. It was hard for them to understand the truth.”
“And the Janissaries?”
“Sheikh Karagoz forged the link. Imagine: the early Janissaries were young men, uncertain in their faith, for they had been plucked from the ranks of unbelievers and had to forget many errors. Sheikh Karagoz made it easier for them. You know the story, of course. He was with the sultan Murad, who first created the Janissary corps from among the prisoners he took in his Balkan wars. When the sheikh blessed them, with his hand outstretched in a long white sleeve, that sleeve became the mark of the Janissary, the headgear that they wore like an egret in their turbans.”
“So Sheikh Ka
ragoz was a baba?”
“In a sense, yes. He lived somewhat later than the last babas of Turkish tradition, but the principles were the same. His teachings were Islamic, but they dwelt on mystery and sacred union.”
“Sacred union?”
The imam pursed his lips. “I mean union of faiths, union with God. We say, for example, that there is only one path to truth, and that is written in the Koran. Sheikh Karagoz believed that there were other ways.”
“Like the dervish. Ecstatic states. Liberation of the soul from the prison of the body.”
“Exactly, but the means were different. You might say, more primitive.”
“How so?”
“True adepts considered themselves to be above all earthly bonds and rules. So rule breaking was a way of showing their allegiance to the brotherhood. They would drink alcohol and eat pork, for instance. Women were admitted under the same conditions as men. Much of the clear guidance of the Koran was simply brushed aside, as unimportant or even irrelevant. Such transgressions helped to create a bond between them.”
“I see. Perhaps that made it easier for the Christian-born to approach Islam?”
“In the short term, I agree. They gave up fewer of their base pleasures. You know what soldiers can be like.”
Yashim nodded. Wine, women, and song: the litany of the campfire in every age.
“If they ignored the guidance of the Koran,” he said slowly, “what guidance did they receive?”
“A very good question.” The imam put his fingertips together. “In one sense, none at all. The true Karagozi believed in no one but himself: he believed that his was the soul that persisted in every state—creation, birth, death, and beyond. The rules were irrelevant. But the ridiculous thing is, he had rules of his own, too. Magic numbers. Secrets. Superstitions. A Karagozi will not set his spoon on the table, or stand on a threshold, that sort of thing.
“Obeying the petty regulations of the order allowed him to break the laws of God. It is scarcely to be wondered at that all sorts of bad types were attracted to the Karagozi order. Let’s not exaggerate. The original impulse, if confused, was pure. The Karagozi followers thought of themselves as Muslims. That is, they attended prayers in the mosque, like everyone else. The Karagozi element was another layer in their spiritual allegiance, a secret layer. They were organized in lodges, what we call tekkes. Places of gathering and prayer. There were many of them, in Istanbul and elsewhere.”
“Were all the Karagozi Janissaries?”
“No. All the Janissaries were Karagozi, broadly speaking. Which is not the same thing. Perhaps, my friend, we have been too quick to speak of them and their doctrines in the past tense. The blow to the Janissaries? A setback. Maybe, in the end, a creative one. You know, faith may sharpen itself in adversity. I would imagine that we have not heard the last of the Karagozi. Perhaps not under that name, but the currents of spirituality they tap are deep.”
“But proscribed, as you said. Forbidden.”
“Ali, well, here in Istanbul, yes. But they have made a long journey across many centuries and many lands, from the eastern deserts to the borders of the Domain of Peace.”
The imam smiled. “Don’t look so surprised. The doctrine of the Karagozi won many frontiers for Islam. Perhaps it will do so again.”
“Which borders? Where do you mean?”
“They are strong where you’d expect them to be. In Albania. Where the Janissaries were always strong.”
Yashim nodded.
“There’s a poem. You seem to know a lot, so perhaps you know this, too.” He recited the verses he had found nailed to the Janissary Tree.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They spread.
Flee.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They seek.
Teach them.
The imam frowned. “It is, I recall, a Karagozi verse. Yes, I know it. Highly esoteric, don’t you agree? It goes on to suggest some form of mystical and divine union, as far as I remember.”
“What do you mean, it goes on?”
“The poem you’ve quoted is incomplete.” The imam looked surprised. “I’m afraid I can’t recite it exactly.”
“But you could, perhaps, find out?”
“By the grace of God,” said the imam placidly. “If you’re interested, I can try.”
“I would be grateful,” Yashim said, rising.
They bowed to one another. Just as Yashim turned to go, the imam turned his face to the window.
“Sufic mysteries,” he said quietly. “Beautiful in their way, but ethereal. I don’t think they would mean much to the ordinary people. Or perhaps, I don’t know, too much. There’s a lot of passion, and even faith, in this kind of poetry, but in the end it doesn’t suit the believers. It’s too free, too dangerous.”
I don’t know about free, Yashim reflected.
But dangerous, yes.
Certainly dangerous.
Even murderous.
30
****************
He saw her swinging down the street, tall and graceful and challenging the men to stare. A few yards from him she slowed and began to look around. He put up a hand and waved her across.
She dragged back a stool and sat down abruptly. A group of old men playing backgammon at the next table rubbernecked with obvious stupefaction, but Preen didn’t notice, or care.
“Coffee,” she said.
Yashim ordered two, avoiding the tray boy’s curious stare. Not for the first time in his life he wanted to stand up and explain. She’s not, in fact, a woman, so everything is as it should be. She’s a man, dressed as a woman.
But he admired her courage in coming to the cafe. He nodded grimly at the old men.
With scarcely a trace of makeup, the flush in Preen’s cheeks was real: she looked, Yashim thought, better for it.
“We can’t talk here,” he said. “I’ll cut along home, and you can join—”
“We’ll talk here,” she replied through gritted teeth. The boy served the coffees and began to flick a duster over an adjoining table. Yashim caught his eye and jerked his head. The boy sloped off, disappointed.
He looked at her. “You’re looking very lovely today,” he said.
“Cut it out.”
She sounded tough, but she kept her eyes on the table and moved her head slowly from side to side. A trace of pleasure.
“It’s better if we’re not seen together at the moment. It’s my job to blend in, to slip by unobserved. As for you, well, I’m not sure what we’re into here.”
“I’m a big girl,” said Preen. Her lip quivered. Yashim grinned. Preen covered her mouth with a hand and shot him a look. Then she giggled.
“Oh, I know I’m naughty, sweetie. I just couldn’t help it. I had to do something a bit wild, see someone I like. Shock him, too. To feel alive.” She let a shiver of pleasure run through her body. “I’ve been talking to Istanbul’s most disgusting man.”
Yashim raised his eyebrows. “I’m amazed you can be so sure.”
“A hunchbacked pimp, from the docks? I’m sure. He says someone saw your friends the other night.”
Yashim leaned forward. “Where?”
“Somewhere reasonably salubrious. Is salubrious the word I want, Yashim?”
“Possibly. Your—informant—he wasn’t there himself?”
“Not that he told me. Don’t you want to know where?”
“Of course I want to know.”
“It’s some sort of gardens,” Preen explained. “Along the Bosphorus.”
“Ali.” Perhaps salubrious was the word Preen wanted: all things are relative, after all.
“There’s a kiosk there, apparently, perfectly clean. There are even little lanterns in the trees.” Preen sounded almost wistful. “You can sit there and talk, and watch the boats in the straits, and have a coffee or a pipe.”
The Yeyleyi Gardens were once a favorite of the
court: the sultan would take his women to picnic there, among the trees. That must have been almost a century ago. The sultans had stopped coming when the place became popular; in time it grew faintly notorious. Not entirely respectable, the Yeyleyi Gardens had been the sort of place where lovers used to arrange to meet by accident, communicating in the tender and semisecret language of flowers. These days the encounters were more spontaneous but even better arranged, and the language possibly mercenary. He could quite imagine it being visited—a little hopefully—by what the seraskier called boys of good family.
The Janissary Tree Page 9
