The Janissary Tree

by Jason Goodwin

  The second verse of the Karagozi poem came to his mind.

  Unknowing

  And knowing nothing of unknowing,

  They seek.

  Well, here he was. Unknowing, searching. And the refrain?

  Teach them.

  All well and good, he thought, but teach them what? Enlightenment? Of course, it would be that. But it meant nothing to him. As the poem said, he didn’t even know what he didn’t know. He could go around in circles like this forever.

  So who were these other people, the people who were supposed to teach? Teachers, simply. Imams, for example, dinning the Koran into their restless little charges with the cane. Ferenghi gunnery instructors, perhaps, trying to explain the rules of mathematics to a fresh-faced batch of recruits. And at the madrassas, the schools attached to city mosques, clever boys learned the rudiments of logic, rhetoric, and Arabic.

  Outside on the pavement, the dervish had finished his dance. He pulled a cap from his belt and passed through the cafe, soliciting alms. To everyone who gave him something, he put out a hand and murmured a blessing.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Yashim saw the proprietor watching with folded arms. He had no doubt that had the man been a simple beggar he would have shooed him away, maybe with a coin, but a dervish—no, the babas had to be given respect because they showed people the way. The path to a higher truth.

  The dervishes were teachers of higher truths.

  The Karagozi, also, were teachers of their Way.

  Yashim hunched his shoulders, trying to concentrate.

  He’d had that verse in his head, recently. Unknowing they seek. Teach them. And he had said—or perhaps it was just a thought—that he must be a slow learner.

  Where was it? He had an impression that he had, after all, learned something then. He had thought of that verse, and heard something useful. But the time and place eluded him.

  He shut his eyes. In his mind he groped for an answer.

  A slow learner. Where had he thought that before?

  His mind was blank. Try again.

  He had guessed that there were four towers. Old Palmuk, the fire watcher, had denied it.

  Then he remembered. It wasn’t the old man; it was the other one, Orhan. It was Orhan who had told him about the towers as they stood on the parapet of the Galata Tower, in the fog. He’d described the tower that was lost and how they raised the Beyazit tower to compensate. The old tower had burned, he’d said: along with the tekke. A tekke, like the one downstairs.

  So both towers had been furnished with a Karagozi tekke. He couldn’t yet be sure about the fire tower at Beyazit, but a tekke was certainly where the truth was taught, as the Karagozi perceived it. Unknowing they seek. Teach them. And the tekkes in the fire towers were, coincidentally, the earliest tekkes in the city.

  “I’ve had the whole thing back to front,” Yashim announced. He stood up abruptly and saw a dervish blinking, smiling, putting out his cap for alms. The dervish’s cap swam under his nose.

  Yashim walked out.

  The dervish stretched out both his arms in blessing. In his cap he had seen a whole silver sequin.

  69

  ***********

  “CHARMANTE! Tout a fait charmante! If I were younger, my dear, I would be positively jealous.”

  Eugenia blushed slightly and curtseyed. There was no doubt in her own mind that the valide, who was reclining against cushions scattered around a window seat, must have been ravishing herself. With the soft light at her back, she had the easy poise of a beautiful woman. And the cheekbones to go with it.

  “I am so glad we were able to persuade you to come,” the valide continued, without a hint of irony. She raised her lorgnette and peered at Eugenia’s dress. “The girls will think you quite a la mode” she pronounced. “I want you to sit here by me, before they come to devour you. We can talk a little.”

  Eugenia smiled and took a seat at the edge of the divan.

  “It was so kind of you to invite me,” she said.

  “Men don’t think it, but there is so much we women can arrange, n’est-ce pas? Even from here. Tu ne me crois pas?”

  “Of course I believe you, Valide.”

  “And you Russians are very much in the ascendant these days. Count Orloff, your husband’s predecessor, was a good friend to the empire during the Egyptian crisis. He had a very plain wife, I understand. But no doubt they were very happy together.”

  Eugenia’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “She was a Voronsky,” she replied.

  “Believe it or not,” the valide said, “I have never been impressed by the claims of old family. Neither I nor my dear childhood friend Rose were precisely Almanach de Gotha. We were clever, and that counts for much more. She became empress. Her husband Napoleon, of course, came from nowhere at all. The Ottomans, I’m delighted to say, have no snobberies of that kind.”

  Eugenia blinked lazily and smiled.

  “Surely,” she said carelessly, “there’s one old family in the empire whose claims have to be respected?”

  The valide put out a hand and rested it on Eugenia’s arm. “Perfectly right, my dear. But my son was brought up to defend those claims, rather than rely on them. It doesn’t matter if you’re the fifth or the twenty-fifth or—in Mahmut’s case—the thirty-third sultan of the Ottoman Empire, and in direct descent from Osman Bey himself, if you can’t prove that the empire needs you. Mahmut has exceeded my expectations.

  “I’d like you to meet him. He would be delighted by you, of course.” The valide saw the surprise in Eugenia’s expression and laughed softly. “Oh, don’t be alarmed. My son is no Suleiman.”

  Eugenia found herself laughing. Suleiman the Magnificent, the great Renaissance sultan, had fallen head over heels for a Russian courtesan, Roxelana. He wound up marrying her—the last time any sultan had married at all.

  The valide gave her arm a squeeze. “And entre nous, he prefers them rather more upholstered. You’ll see.”

  She raised her hand. As if by magic, two girls entered and bowed. One of them held a tray containing coffee in tiny cups. The other, a narghile.

  “Do you smoke?”

  Eugenia gave the valide a startled look. The valide shrugged.

  “One forgets. It is a harem vice, I’m afraid. One of several. Parisian fashions are another.”

  She gestured to the girls, who set down the tray and the pipe. One of them knelt prettily at Eugenia’s feet and presented her with a coffee cup.

  “The inspection has begun,” said the valide drily. Eugenia took the cup and murmured a thank-you. The girl made no effort to move but touched her hand to her forehead and addressed a few words to the valide.

  “As I expected,” the valide said. “The girls have been wondering whether you would like to join them in the bath.”

  70

  ***********

  As Yashim climbed the spiral staircase, he was still elated by the news.

  The boy had found him on the pavement outside the cafe. He stood very stiffly to attention and blurted out the message he had memorized on the run back from Preen’s landlady.

  “The lady says your friend is not going to die and I should not ask about such things. She says she has hurt her arm and needs a lot of rest. She says—she says—” He screwed up his face. “I cannot remember the other thing, but it was like the first bit. I think.”

  Yashim had made him repeat the message. He stood stock-still for several moments, then he laughed. “You’ve done very well—and brought me the best news. Thank you.”

  The boy took the coin with grave ceremony and ran back into the cafe to show it to his mother. Yashim turned up the street and limped away in the direction of the Golden Horn, humming.

  His mood didn’t change when he put his head through the hatch and saw old Palmuk, the fire watcher, leaning on the parapet with his back turned toward him. On the contrary. With a smile, he moved quietly onto the roof. He stood behind Palmuk and made a sudden grab for his waistband. Before the fi
re watcher could react, he had hoisted him over the parapet.

  “Aaargh! Aaaargh! Don’t do that! Orhan! Aaaargh! Let go! You bastard. Oh. Oh. Me heart. Orhan?”

  “It isn’t Orhan,” said Yashim levelly. “It’s the man you lied to yesterday. The tower? Remember? I think you said, too, that you don’t like heights. But what am I to believe?”

  “I don’t like ‘em, efendi, I don’t. And I swear I never lied.”

  Old Palmuk’s legs were thrashing about, but his arms were too far over the parapet to reach back. Yashim gave him a little shove.

  “No, please!” He was almost screaming now, the words coming in rigid little bursts. “What I said—I wanted the money. I’ll give it back.”

  “A tekke,” Yashim shouted. “There’s a fourth tekke, isn’t there?”

  But the man had gone limp. Yashim’s eyes narrowed. He wondered if it was a ruse. He’d pull him back and then—wham! Old Palmuk would be at his throat.

  “Over you go, then,” he said loudly.

  Either old Palmuk was in a faint or he was a very steely customer.

  Yashim thought of the assassin, plunging himself into the boiling dye. He pulled old Palmuk back onto the roof.

  The man’s face was the color of putty. His eyes moved wildly to left and right, and he seemed to be having trouble breathing. He emitted a series of dry clicks.

  Yashim laid him on his back and tore at the neck of his shirt. He massaged his chest, pumping with his forearms. A little color returned to old Palmuk’s cheeks, and the rapid movement of his eyes slowed. At last he drew a long, shuddering wheeze and closed his eyes.

  Yashim said nothing. Waited.

  The old man’s eyes half opened and slid toward him.

  “You didn’t ought to have done that,” he mumbled. “You took advantage, efendi.”

  Yashim, squatting, rocked back on his heels and breathed hard through his nose.

  “You lied to me,” he said coldly.

  A sly grin spread over old Palmuk’s face, and he hiccuped mirthlessly.

  “It’s what you wanted, innit?” He spoke very quietly. “Old Palmuk, serve the customer. Hey, Palmuk, tell us a story.” He closed his eyes again. “You didn’t ought to have done that.”

  Yashim bit his lip. Last night he’d as good as murdered a man. And today—

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  Palmuk put a hand to his chest and clawed at his shirt, crumpling the torn edges together.

  “It was a new shirt, efendi.”

  Yashim sighed.

  “I’ll get you another. I’ll get you two. But first, tell me this. Did the Karagozi have a tekke at the Beyazit Fire Tower? Like the one here?”

  Old Palmuk stared. “Tekke? The Beyazit Tower?” He began to wheeze. It took Yashim a moment to realize that he was laughing.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “A tekke at Beyazit, you said?” Old Palmuk rubbed his nose with the palm of his hand, sniggering. “There was a tekke there, all right. The whole tower was built on it.”

  Yashim froze. “The Eski Serai?”

  “It’s what I heard. Way back when, them Janissaries used to guard the old palace. It fell apart. But the Karagozi didn’t abandon the tekke. They found a way to keep it—protected, like. They got the whole fire tower built atop of it, see?”

  Yashim saw. “Another tekke, then. That’s what I need. The fourth.”

  The fire watcher cracked a smile. “There were dozens, efendi. Hundreds.”

  “Yes. But for the fire watchers? Was there—a special one?”

  Old Palmuk wrestled himself upright. He swayed over his lap, shaking his head.

  “I wish I knew, efendi. I wish I knew what you were on about. I don’t know who you think I am, but you’ve got the wrong man. I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  He turned to look at Yashim, and his gray eyes were round.

  “I used to be an errand boy. On the docks.” He was nodding now, staring at Yashim as if for the first time. “Get this, efendi. I weren’t there.”

  Yashim thought: it’s true.

  I give the fellow money. I buy him shirts. And he really doesn’t know a thing.

  71

  ***********

  YASHIM found the Polish ambassador in a silken dressing gown embroidered with lions and horses in tarnished gold thread, which Yashim supposed was Chinese. He was drinking tea and staring quietly at a boiled egg, but when Yashim came in he put up a hand to shield his eyes, turning his head this way and that like an anxious tortoise. The sunshine picked out motes of dust climbing slowly toward the long windows.

  “Do you know what time it is?” Palewski said thickly. “Have tea.”

  “Are you ill?”

  “Ill? No. But suffering. Why couldn’t it be raining?”

  Unable to think of an answer, Yashim curled up in an armchair and let Palewski pour him a cup with a shaking hand.

  “Mezes,” Yashim said. He glanced up. “Mezes. Little snacks before the main dish.”

  “Must we talk about food?”

  “Mezes are a way of calling people’s attention to the excellence of the feast to come. A lot of effort goes into their preparation. Or, I should say, their selection. Sometimes the best mezes are the simplest things. Fresh cucumbers from Karaman, sardines from Ortakoy, battered at most, and grilled… Everything at its peak, in its season: timing, you could say, is everything.

  “Now, take these murders. You were right—they’re more than isolated acts of violence. There is a pattern, and more. Taken together, you see, they aren’t an end in themselves. The meal doesn’t end with the mezes, does it? The mezes announce the feast.

  “And these killings, like mezes, depend on timing,” he continued. “I’ve been wondering over the last three days, why now? The murders, I mean, the cadets. Almost by chance, I discover that the sultan is set to issue an edict in a few days. A great slew of reforms.”

  “Ali yes, the edict.” Palewski nodded and put his fingertips together.

  “You know about it?” Yashim’s argument collapsed in astonishment.

  “In a roundabout way. An explanation was given to, Ali, selected members of the diplomatic community in Istanbul a few weeks ago.” He saw that Yashim was about to speak, and raised a hand. “When I say selected, I mean that I for one was not included. It isn’t hard to see why, if I’m right about the edict and what it means. One of its purposes—its primary purpose, for all I know—is to make the Porte eligible for foreign loans. Poland, obviously, is in no position to influence the bond market. So they left me out. It was essentially a Big Power arrangement. I heard about it from the Swedes, who got it from the Americans, I believe.”

  “You mean the Americans were invited?”

  “Odd as it seems. But then, you know what Americans are? They’re the world experts at borrowing money in Europe. The Porte wants them on its side. Perhaps they can coordinate their efforts. And, to be frank, I don’t think the Porte has ever quite managed to work out whose side the Americans are on. Your pashas are still digesting the Declaration of Independence sixty years after the event.”

  Palewski reached for the teapot. “The idea of a republic has always fascinated them, in a schoolboy sort of way. The House of Osman must be the longest-lived royal line in Europe. Some more tea?”

  Yashim put out his cup and saucer. “I’ve been wondering who knew about the edict. Foreign powers didn’t occur to me.”

  “But foreign powers,” said Palewski, with patient cynicism, “are the whole point: foreign powers, foreign loans.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.”

  They drank their tea in silence for a moment, marked only by the ticking of the German clock.

  “Your Janissaries,” Palewski said after a while. “Do you still believe that they exist?”

  Yashim nodded. “Like it or not, I’m sure. You saw them blotted out, you told me. Very well. Poland, as the world supposes, vanished fifty years ago.

  You can’t even find it o
n a map. But that’s not what you tell me. You say it endures. Poland exists in language, in memory, in faith. It lives on, as an idea. I’m talking about the same thing.

  “About the fire towers, I was only partly right. I made a link between the three fire towers I knew about—the two still standing, as well as the one that was burned and demolished in 1826—and the cadets, whose bodies all turned up nearby. I needed to find a fourth fire tower, didn’t I? But I can’t. There never was a fourth tower. But I knew the pattern was right. The fire towers had the hand of the Janissaries on them, just like these murders. It had to be right.”