‘Why the hell, Ibrahim, would a Fleshmaker – if there were Fleshmakers – pick on you?’
‘Because of you, Effendi,’ said the driver unexpectedly.
‘Me?’
‘It would be because I serve you. A foreigner and infidel. An enemy of the Sultan!’
‘I am not an enemy of the Sultan!’
‘I know you’re not, Effendi, but do the Fleshmakers?’
‘Look, Ibrahim, I can’t waste any more time standing here arguing with you. I expect the landau to be here when I come back and I expect you to be standing beside it. If you don’t like waiting on your own, then I suggest you go into that coffee house over there. And if I don’t find you here when I get back, it won’t be the Fleshmakers who are kicking you up the backside, it will be me!’
‘Who, or what, are the Carneficers?’ asked Seymour, as they walked away.
‘Not are, but were,’ corrected Rice-Cholmondely. ‘Servants of the Sultan. The ones who used to do his dirty work. The Sultan’s Fleshmakers.’
Rice-Cholmondely led him through a bewildering maze of dark, narrow streets where men sat outside their doors smoking bubble pipes, past coffee houses, dozens, whose owners marked out their property by driving into the ground in front of it a stout stake on top of which they placed a glass lantern containing a flaming circle of candles; past a public garden where people were sipping sherbet and listening to some Armenian singers on a bandstand; past an open-fronted building where brawny men were playing drums (‘The Fire Brigade, old boy’); and finally to what appeared to be a large wooden shed.
‘Here we are!’ said Rice-Cholmondely, with satisfaction.
‘The theatre?’
‘That’s right.’
He seemed about to go in.
‘Won’t the performance have started?’
‘It’s not quite like that, old boy.’
And, indeed, it wasn’t. For one thing, the performance came in a kind of continuous strip; short, bloody, one-act melodramas alternated with operettas or maybe it was just one opera with a lot of acts, it was hard to tell. These were interspersed with acrobatic turns of various kinds and short comic sketches. At one point a bear was led across the stage. Hit by a cascade of peanut shells, it stopped, turned and advanced towards the front of the stage. The small boys sitting on the ground in front of the stalls scattered excitedly.
Rice-Cholmondely seized the opportunity provided by the diversion – the bear was soon hauled back – to push his way through to a box. Most of the audience was sitting on benches but at the back was a row of open, raised boxes with comfortable cane chairs and little tables beside them for drinks. The drinks were obviously an important feature and at intervals through the performance a waiter would lean over the side of a box and you would hear a noisy glug-glug-glug, which didn’t, however, put the performers off, probably because the audience was making so much noise anyway. It largely ignored what was happening onstage and concentrated on chatting to neighbours and buying the peanuts wrapped in small cones of old newspaper offered by a continuous belt of small boys.
Suddenly, however, the chatter stopped. A different group of actors had come on to the stage. They began performing what Seymour gradually realized was a satirical skit. The targets appeared to be portly effendis, whom Seymour eventually, some time after the rest of the audience, perceived to be Ottoman officials of some sort, and lah-di-dah courtiers. The satire became more pointed, with the officials taking backhanders and the courtiers all too realistically backside-licking.
The targets shifted and became foreigners: daft tourists and then some very superior officials of some sort. Embassy officials, he suddenly realized. The audience began laughing and turning towards them.
‘That’s me, old chap,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, chuckling.
And, yes, he could see that it was, a rather good take-off, in fact. And then there was someone else, also from the Embassy, presumably, but, of course, Seymour didn’t know the staff well enough to tell who it was. The audience began turning again.
‘And that’s you,’ said Rice-Cholmondely.
The target shifted once more. The actors turned soldiers and marched round the stage with sticks over their shoulders. Then they pointed them at each other and, one after another, fell down dead. The last one stood for a moment looking around him, affecting puzzlement. He took up his gun and gaped at it, surprised. Then he sat on it, propping himself up as on an umpire’s stick, and shot himself up the backside, to great cheers.
The troupe went off.
‘What was all that about?’ said Seymour.
A short, slim figure, still in greasepaint, came into the box.
‘Lalagé!’ cried Rice-Cholmondely. ‘You were marvellous, darling!’
‘Thanks!’ said Lalagé, sitting down. ‘Could I have a drink, please?’
‘Of course!’
Rice-Cholmondely beckoned to one of the waiters and a moment later a glass of something brightly coloured (cr`eme de menthe?) was placed on the table at her side.
‘Weren’t they terr-eeble tonight?’ she demanded. She sounded French but wasn’t quite. From somewhere-around-the-Mediterranean, Seymour guessed. ‘Couldn’t get a response out of them.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Rice-Cholmondely. ‘I thought you conjured something.’
‘Had to work hard for it.’ She turned to Seymour. ‘Didn’t you think they were a bit wooden?’
‘This is Seymour,’ introduced Rice-Cholmondely.
‘Yes, I know. The man who’s come out to find out about Cunningham.’
Seymour hoped his jaw hadn’t dropped too obviously.
‘You’re well informed,’ he said.
She shrugged.
‘Have to be, in our line of business. That’s where Cunningham was so helpful to us.’
‘He supplied you with information?’
‘Of course, it worked both ways. We supplied him, too.’
‘Very helpfully,’ said Rice-Cholmondely. ‘Especially on the Palace.’
She shrugged again.
‘We know he used us,’ she said.
‘How?’ asked Seymour.
‘He used to plant things. If he wanted to influence opinion.’ She glanced at Seymour and then at Rice-Cholmondely. ‘Does he know about us?’
‘He’s learning.’
She faced Seymour.
‘You might not think it, but we’re quite well known. Not many other places do stuff like ours so what we do gets around. The newspapers pick it up, the cabarets do, and one or two other theatres. We’re quite famous, actually.’
‘Deservedly,’ said Rice-Cholmondely enthusiastically.
‘And in a way it was Cunningham who did that. He came to us with some material one day and said, “Why don’t you use this?” We took one look at it and said, “No, thanks.” It was political, you see, and we didn’t touch that sort of thing. Too dangerous. “Oh, go on,” he said. “It will start people talking.”
‘Too bloody true. And the first people who started talking were the police. They were round in a flash. Rudi managed to bribe them but he said, “No more of that, my dears.” But then he found people actually missed it so we sort of slid it back in again. “There you are, darlings,” Cunningham said. “Made your fortune for you.”
‘Well, not for us. For Rudi, more like. But I didn’t like it. I began to have a funny feeling round the back of my neck. “Anyway,” I said, “that sort of stuff is cabaret. We’re theatre.” “Cabaret is theatre,” he said. “Maybe,” I said, “but it’s low theatre.” “Darling, I hate to tell you this,” he said, “but, as theatre goes, you are not, I’m afraid, very high.” Well, it was rude of him but he did have a point. And it was nice to feel a bit established and not to be always packing our bags and moving on.’
‘What sort of stuff did he get you to put on?’ asked Seymour curiously.
‘That sketch about the army was one of his.’
‘I didn’t quite understand that,’ said Se
ymour.
‘Well, I don’t understand it, either. But quite a few people seemed to. Rudi for one, and he didn’t like it one bit. “I can bribe the police,” he said, “but I can’t bribe the army. Or, at least, not that part of it.” But then the Palace said they wanted it kept in. Actually, it’s my belief that Cunningham had agreed it with them from the start.’
‘What happened to the Palace sketch?’ asked Rice-Cholmondely sleepily. ‘I rather liked that.’
‘They wanted that out. And Rudi wasn’t going to argue because I think he was beginning to have a funny feeling around his neck, too.’ She looked at Seymour. ‘Cunningham wrote that piece, too.’
Seymour had been puzzling at something. He had been trying to relate her to the actors he had seen on the stage. But they had all seemed male. Seeing her now in the box he realized how he had make the mistake. She was dressed as a man, for the last piece as a soldier. Close to, however, even Seymour could tell the difference.
‘I’m surprised,’ he said. ‘I thought they didn’t allow women on the stage. You know, this being a Muslim country.’
‘Oh, they don’t!’
‘Then –’
‘Rudi denies we are women. When the police come round.’
‘But –’
‘He puts on a great act when they try to inspect us. We’re decent young men, he cries. Do they think that young men have no modesty? Just because they themselves have no modesty? Of course, the crowd – and he always makes sure there is a crowd of onlookers – loves this. “Pederasts!” they shout at the police. “Sodomites!” And, of course, only three of us are women. The others start taking down their trousers, and the police get all hot and bothered and go away until the next time.
‘Of course, everybody knows. But it adds to our attraction. It gives them an extra frisson when they see us dressed up as men and pretending to be men. The ambiguity excites them. They’re a bit like that here, you know. But then, it’s nothing new. Think of Shakespeare’s time – all those boy actors dressing up as girls. Boys,’ she added, ‘are very popular here, too.’
‘Talking of boys,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, ‘I see that Ahmet’s not here tonight.’
‘I think he’s with Selim.’
A waiter came up to the box and said something to her. She stood up.
‘I’ve got to get backstage,’ she said. ‘I’m on again in five minutes. But it’s just a short piece this time. I’m free afterwards. Would you like to come round?’ she said to Seymour. ‘Then you can come home with me. Cunningham always used to.’
‘Seymour,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, ‘I think perhaps we should be getting back to our landau.’
‘Tomorrow night, perhaps?’ suggested Seymour. ‘I’d like to talk to you about Cunningham.’
‘I can think of more interesting things to talk about,’ said Lalagé.
When they got back to the landau Ibrahim, of course, was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a small boy asleep underneath the carriage. Rice-Cholmondely stirred him with his foot.
The boy leaped up.
‘Effendi! I fetch. One minute!’
Rather more than one minute later Ibrahim appeared, buttoning his trousers.
‘Effendi, a thousand apologies! I have been visiting my sister.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said Rice-Cholmondely, sceptically.
Despite the lateness of the hour, Seymour was up bright and early the next morning and presented himself at the Embassy, eager to get on with his enquiries.
The first person he wanted to talk to was the porter who had accompanied Cunningham by boat in his swim across the Dardanelles and who appeared to be, so far as Seymour could tell, the only actual eyewitness.
Here, however, he ran at once into difficulties. Arabic and Turkish were not among Seymour’s languages and English, it seemed, was not one of the porter’s. Seymour had thought that Ponsonby, or perhaps Rice-Cholmondely, might interpret for him. He learned, though, that there was a protocol in these things, as in most things to do with the Embassy. Interpreting was the preserve of the Chief Dragoman.
The Chief Dragoman was a short, alert, grey-haired man in a red fez and splendid gilt, Jewish, possibly, or perhaps Syrian, or maybe Armenian, or, most probably, a mixture of all these; not obviously Turkish, anyway.
‘I fix,’ he said confidently.
The porter was the reverse of confident. He was an elderly turbaned Arab in a white gown and bare feet, at which he looked for most of the interview.
‘This, Mohammed,’ introduced the Dragoman. ‘Salaam, Mohammed!’ He turned to Seymour. ‘I say, “Hi, Mohammed!”’
‘Hi!’ said Seymour.
The Dragoman said something in Arabic.
‘I say, “Mohammed, what the hell you do in boat? You porter, not sailor!”’
Mohammed muttered something.
‘Cunningham Effendi ask,’ translated the Dragoman.
‘Why did he ask Mohammed and not a proper boatman?’
‘I ask.’
Mohammed shrugged.
‘He not know,’ said the Dragoman. ‘But I know. He see Mohammed sitting on his ass and think, This layabout do nothing, why not row boat? That right, yes, Mohammed?’
Mohammed nodded vigorously.
Seymour let it pass.
The Chief Dragoman continued happily, without waiting for Seymour.
‘Now, Mohammed, you in boat, yes? With flag, yes? Where you get flag?’
Mohammed muttered something.
‘He take from Embassy. Mohammed, this bad. You got permission? You got chitty? No? Effendi, this man steal Embassy property.’
Seymour decided it was time to assert himself.
‘Never mind about the flag,’ he said. ‘Listen, Mohammed, I want you to tell me exactly what happened when Cunningham Effendi swam across. And let’s get one thing clear from the start: which way did he swim?’
‘Which way swim?’ said the impressible Dragoman, astonished. ‘For Christ’s sake, everyone know that! You think he go for dip or something? No, Effendi, he swim across Straits. Like Milord.’
‘Milord?’
‘Milord Byron.’
‘No, not like Lord Byron.’
‘Not?’
‘He swam the other way. From Sestos to Abydos. Not from Abydos to Sestos.’
‘What the hell these places?’
‘Maybe they’re not called that now,’ conceded Seymour.
‘Abidé,’ said Mohammed.
‘Right. Thank you, Mohammed. Abidé, not Abydos. He swam across to Abidé. Yes?’
Mohammed nodded his head.
‘Not the other way? Okay. Now tell me what happened.’
Mohammed made swimming motions.
‘He swim,’ said the Chief Dragoman.
‘Right, yes. I’ve got that.’
Mohammed carried on swimming.
‘Long way. Cunningham Effendi tired. Puff, puff!’ said the Dragoman dramatically.
Mohammed shook his head.
‘Too much drink!’ said the Dragoman sternly. ‘Cunningham Effendi near drown.’
Mohammed shook his head vigorously.
The Dragoman broke into a fit of gasping.
Mohammed shook his head even more vigorously.
‘Swim, swim!’ said the Dragoman desperately.
Mohammed nodded.
‘Last bit!’ said the Dragoman, straining every muscle.
‘This is what I want to know about.’
‘Nearly there!’ The Dragoman floundered anguishedly towards the shore.
‘And then?’
He struggled to his feet.
‘Yes? And then?’
‘Plop!’ said the Dragoman, and fell in a heap on the ground.
‘Just a minute, just a minute. Let him speak. Did he actually see this?’
Mohammed shook his head in denial.
‘Not see?’ said the Chief Dragoman disbelievingly.
Mohammed shook his head again, and then made strenuous rowing motions. He
looked at Seymour, then touched him on the back. Then he made the rowing motions even more vigorously.
‘Ah, I’ve got it! He didn’t see because he was, of course, rowing backwards.’
‘He row backwards? This man lunatic?’
‘No, no . . .’ Seymour demonstrated. ‘That’s the way you row. This way!’
Mohammed nodded.
‘Then how he see where going?’
Seymour, and Mohammed, looked over their shoulders.
‘Well, I buggered!’ said the Chief Dragoman.
‘So you weren’t actually watching at the moment when Cunningham Effendi was shot?’
Mohammed shook his head. Then he touched his ears.
‘Ah, you weren’t looking, but you heard the shot?’
Mohammed affected to start. Then he looked round. Then he fell back with a gasp, covering his eyes.
This was dramatic but not informative. Seymour tried again.
After much pantomiming he established that Cunningham had been just emerging from the water. Standing, anyway. He had fallen down at the edge of the water. Mohammed had leaped from his boat, caught hold of him and dragged him up on to the beach; after which, it appeared from his description, he had first collapsed over him in grief and then delivered a funeral oration.
Chapter Three
The Ambassador was holding a letter in his hand.
‘Ridiculous!’ he fumed. ‘Absolutely ridiculous! Are they trying to create an international incident? Or are they just so stupid that they’re creating one without even trying? What is H.M. Government going to say to this? Absurd! That’s what they’ll say, and this morning I am going round to the Porte to say it first.’
He looked at the letter again.
‘Absurd!’ he said angrily. ‘Spying! Just what is there on the peninsula to spy on, I would like to know? It’s bare rock. Bare rock and sand and a handful of villages. Fortifications? To the best of my knowledge the only fortification on the peninsula is the castle at Gelibolu and that was built by Mehmet the Conqueror in the fourteenth century and has been in ruins ever since! Fortifications? Spying? Absurd! What would he have been spying on? What could he have been spying on? There’s nothing there. And yet that’s what they say he was doing. When he was shot.’
A Dead Man in Istanbul Page 3
