A Dead Man in Istanbul

by Michael Pearce

  ‘So she didn’t do it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he ask anyone else to do it? Anyone else in the cast?’

  ‘There were only three of us. Three girls, I mean. The other one is Monique, but she couldn’t do it. She can’t stand the sun. It’s ’er complexion, she’s very fair. The sun is really bad for ’er, it makes ’er face come up in blotches. And then, of course, she can’t go onstage.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Did ’e ask me, you mean?’ She laughed. ‘Swim across to me? ’E wouldn’t even spit in my direction. We didn’t get on. I’ve met people like ’im before. So superior they wouldn’t even give you the time of day! Unless they wanted something from you, and then they’d be all over you. I’ve been around too long to fall for that. You give them what they want and when they’ve ’ad it, they drop you in the ditch. So, no, ’e didn’t ask me and I wouldn’t ’ave done it if ’e ’ad.’

  The youth was still lounging on the steps.

  ‘You’re in trouble, Nicole,’ he said maliciously. ‘They’ve started your piece.’

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ said Nicole, and hurried inside.

  The youth laughed and then went after her. As he was going in, he nearly bumped into Mukhtar, who was coming out. He stepped aside and made him a mock bow. Then he shot off inside, leaving the terjiman in a fury again.

  ‘These people!’ he said to Seymour. ‘I do not understand these people!’

  ‘Theatre people, you mean?’

  ‘Them, too,’ said Mukhtar. ‘But, no, I meant khawals.’

  ‘Khawals?’

  ‘Dancing boys. They dance at weddings and on occasions like that. At popular entertainments. There is a long tradition of such people. It is dying out now but the old people like them. But there are some who even when they are not dancing put kohl around their eyes and henna on their hands and keep their hair long like women, and those we call ginks. That boy,’ said Mukhtar, ‘is a gink!’

  ‘I see. Yes.’

  ‘It is not seemly,’ said the terjiman, with unexpected vehemence. ‘It is not becoming. That boy! Has he no pride? No spirit of manliness?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘Some of them even wear veils!’ said Mukhtar bitterly.

  ‘Yes. Well . . . But, of course . . .’

  ‘I know. What does it matter? And, besides, it is traditional. There have always been dancing boys, people say, and why shouldn’t there be? Their dancing gives pleasure. There are two principles in dancing, a friend of mine says, the masculine one and the feminine one, and in dance one plays against the other. Without them both a dance is incomplete. As in life. But without the dancing boy, how is the feminine to be expressed? You can’t have women, of course, so . . .’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Well, I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I don’t know about these things. I am not an expert. To me it seems . . . Well, the practice is dying out, anyway. Let it die of its own accord, they say. Well, if that is what is happening, so be it.

  ‘But ginks, that is a different matter. For they do not reserve their behaviour for private entertainments. They show themselves in public, and that is bad, for it affronts the old and is a bad model for the young. There should be no place for people like that in a modern Turkey. In the Turkey we are trying to build.’

  Seymour was surprised. It was a different side of Mukhtar that he was seeing: different in more ways than one. He felt, however, compelled to register a mild objection.

  ‘Well, yes, but perhaps in the theatre . . .?’

  The terjiman shook his head.

  ‘Not even in the theatre. And certainly not in this theatre at this time when it is so much in the public eye.’

  ‘Is it in the public eye?’

  ‘Oh, yes. And dangerously. It stands out in so many ways compared with other theatres.’

  ‘Women on the stage?’

  ‘Yes. For one thing. Our society is changing, becoming more modern. But there are still many who do not like such things and see them as a deep affront to their religion. However, there are other things, too. You know – or perhaps you don’t know – that this theatre has taken on a political tack. It has become satirical, it makes political attacks. Well, nothing wrong with that, you may say. You are, perhaps, used to that sort of thing in Europe. But out here people are not used to it. It makes them angry. And so, for a variety of reasons, the Theatre of Desires is under attack.’

  ‘When you say, under attack –’

  ‘There is much general hostility towards it, expressed mostly in threats and abuse. But I can’t help wondering –’

  He broke off.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘it occurs to me that Miss Kassim would be especially vulnerable to the expression of that hostility.’

  Rice-Cholmondely had agreed to take Seymour to the Fields of the Dead that afternoon and, punctually at four, they set off down the hill in the landau.

  Les Petits Champs des Morts, the Fields of the Dead, were about halfway down Pera Hill. And fields of the dead they definitely were. It was a vast cemetery.

  The brown, arid land stretched away on all sides, littered with white gravestones scattered all over the place and at all angles, white against brown; like almonds, thought Seymour, in a coffee-coloured mousse. White columns stood up occasionally like old teeth. Here and there cypresses bowed over the graves like the dark feathers he still sometimes saw on horses at East End funerals.

  ‘They come here to eat sweets,’ said Rice-Cholmondely.

  ‘Sweets?’

  ‘Of course, they shouldn’t really eat in public at all. It’s improper. But out here among the tombs, it’s . . . well, condoned. So the Istanbul ladies seize the opportunity. Of which, of course, there are few if you are an Istanbul lady.’

  The tombs were often quite substantial, indeed, more like houses. They even had windows. Seymour peeped in one and got a surprise. The house was furnished. Carpets covered the walls, low divans stood on the marbled floor, brightly coloured glass lamps hung from the ceiling.

  ‘They obviously wanted to make sure they were going to be comfortable.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Rice-Cholmondely. ‘But, of course, this was intended not so much for them as for their families when they came to visit them. On certain festivals families foregather to remember the dead. They bring food and have a sort of picnic. It’s all very jolly.’

  And jolly, too, Seymour thought, were the cages over some of the smaller graves with songbirds fluttering in them to entertain the spirit of the departed.

  Jolly, yes, but . . . what was Leila doing here? Apart from eating sweets?

  ‘Really, of course, they’re here to meet their lovers.’

  ‘Here? In a cemetery?’

  ‘Well, of course, there are not many places in Istanbul where you can go if you want to meet a man alone. You have to have an excuse to go even where men might be. And what better excuse than to go to pray for the dead? Very devout, Istanbul ladies are.’

  And, indeed, as they penetrated further into the vast cemetery, there did seem to be a lot of women.

  Most of them were dressed in the usual long, shapeless black gown of the ordinary Turkish woman, with dark veils to cover the face and a dark mantle to cover the hair – hair, Rice-Cholmondely assured him, was considered dangerously provocative to youth.

  Some, however, were dressed in the height of Parisian fashion, which Seymour thought likely to be even more provocative to youth. They still wore black and covered their heads with mantles and their faces with veils but the veils were somehow skimpy, often nearly transparent, and, Seymour thought, rather fetching. But how did they manage with the Turkish Delight?

  Ahead of them as they walked through the graves was a particularly elegant group of pencil-thin ladies all dressed dutifully in dark and suitably veiled. But the lines of the dresses were definitely Parisian and the cut of the veil was hardly designed to conceal.

  ‘There she is!’ cried Rice-Cholmondely.


  Others had their veil hanging properly down from the mantle, concealing the eyes; Leila’s, somehow, was draped about the lower part of the face. A pair of dark, intelligent eyes looked over the top of it.

  ‘What is this?’ she said, looking at Seymour. ‘A new one?’

  ‘Seymour is just here temporarily,’ said Rice-Cholmondely.

  ‘But why just temporarily?’

  ‘He has come here to look into something.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And what, exactly?’

  ‘And then he goes home again,’ said Rice-Cholmondely firmly.

  Leila laughed.

  ‘A secret, is it? Let me guess.’ The dark eyes studied Seymour curiously. ‘Is it something to do with Cunningham?’

  Not much was secret here, thought Seymour. At least to the Istanbul ladies.

  ‘You knew Cunningham?’ he asked.

  ‘Only too well, said Leila grimly.

  ‘I think,’ said Seymour, after they had been walking for a while, ‘that you might be worth swimming the Straits for.’

  ‘Swimming . . .? Ah, that foolish story!’

  ‘You weren’t the one he swam it for?’

  ‘I won’t say I wasn’t tempted when he asked me. It was such a splendidly romantic thing to do. And I, I am very romantic.’

  ‘But nevertheless . . .?’

  ‘I did not believe him.’

  ‘You did not think he would actually do it?’

  ‘Oh, I thought he would do it, all right. It’s exactly the sort of thing that he would do.’

  ‘Then . . .?’

  ‘But I didn’t think he would be doing it for the reason he said. Cunningham was not, actually, a very romantic man. Oh, he talked a lot about romantic things. But it was usually when he was wanting to get you to do something for him. Like get into bed with him. He was actually very calculating. You always felt that really he had something else in mind. You know, you felt that when he was making love to you, all he was really wanting to do was exercise his back! A woman doesn’t like that. At least, not a romantic woman like me.’

  She gave him a quick look.

  ‘Perhaps you do not think I am romantic?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you are.’

  ‘Well, I am. And certainly when I make love I am romantic. Everything in me is involved. No part hangs back. I am all there. A woman is like that. She is total. But a man . . . or, at least, Cunningham . . .’

  ‘And that was why you refused when he asked?’

  ‘Well, not entirely. For I am realistic, too. And I did not want to stand for hours on a hot bit of rock, with crabs and scorpions coming at me.’

  They walked on for a little while and then Rice-Cholmondely came to a halt.

  ‘Leila, dear, enchanting as is your company, I think we ought to be getting back.’

  ‘But what is the point of going through the Fields of the Dead,’ enquired Leila, ‘if you do not go on to the Valley of the Sweet Waters?’

  Rice-Cholmondely glanced at his watch.

  ‘It would take us another hour at least . . .’

  Leila put her arm through Seymour’s.

  ‘I wish particularly to show Mr Seymour the Valley of the Sweet Waters,’ she said.

  The Valley of the Sweet Waters of Europe lay just beyond the cemetery. Until a century ago, Leila said, its slopes had been covered by pleasure domes and pavilions and gardens full of pomegranates and peaches and apricots. There had been rills crossed by rustic bridges and shady glades where hundreds of herons built their nests. In the giant plane trees the nightingales sang unceasingly.

  Or so said Leila.

  There were still trees and streams and paths with bridges but today the pleasure domes were in ruins and down at the edge of the sea the palaces of the pashas had been replaced by oil tanks, docks and wharves. But still, said Leila, the people came and walked in the shade: the Muslims on Fridays and the Christians on Sundays.

  ‘And what they are seeing,’ said Leila, ‘is pleasure domes and pavilions.’

  ‘And what they are doing,’ said Rice-Cholmondely, ‘is making assignations among the trees.’

  ‘That,’ said Leila, ‘is a very Cunningham style of thinking.’

  They came to a place where there were two bridges. Seymour and Leila went over one and Rice-Cholmondely, together with Leila’s companions, over the other, thinking they would meet on the other side of the street. In fact, the paths diverged for a while. Seymour took advantage of the separation to talk without Rice-Cholmondely hearing.

  ‘Why did you say that you knew Cunningham only too well?’

  Leila was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘He involved me in something which at first I thought was full of wonderful possibilities for me. But then, actually, it turned out to be rather nasty.

  ‘There was a Prince he was friendly with. They had met in Europe when Cunningham was serving at an Embassy there, in Berlin, I think, and became very friendly. And then when Cunningham came out here, and the Prince returned, they picked up the friendship again. At first it was a question of the Prince showing Cunningham round, but soon it was the other way. The Princes don’t know much about Turkey, or even about Istanbul, they’re very isolated, and Cunningham soon knew quite a lot. He had a gift for immersing himself in a country, was always very interested – genuinely interested, he wasn’t just pretending – in its culture. So soon it was he who was showing the Prince round. He introduced him to things – mosques he had never seen, theatres. People, too.’

  ‘Women?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes. At first I was very flattered. A Prince, after all. The highest I’d got before were pashas and Embassy people. This opened up a new world for me. Or so I thought. He seemed to like me. A lot. He was always coming round to my place. Almost every day. And he seemed very nice. He was courteous, you know, and considerate. Not like most men out here. And he was royal, too! I couldn’t get over that. To be royal and yet to be so considerate.

  ‘He’d been to school in England, you know, and perhaps to university there. He seemed very British; indeed, more British than the British. Rather like those men at the Embassy, correct, polite, always very polite, indeed, charming, but somehow stiff. And gradually I realized he was like the British in another way, too, in that this stiffness came from a kind of emotional over-control. His feelings were there but buttoned up inside him. And then sometimes they would burst out and then, somehow, it was rather nasty.

  ‘One day they burst out with me and I was really quite frightened. I thought he might, well, do something to me. And after that I never felt truly confident with him. I was glad when he suddenly seemed to lose interest in me.

  ‘But the strange thing was that somehow it seemed to have started with Cunningham. One day he seemed to wake up and suddenly hate him. And yet they had been so close! They did everything together. Not just that. You had the feeling that Selim wouldn’t do it, or couldn’t do it, unless Cunningham did it first. I sort of felt that if Cunningham hadn’t been my lover first, then Selim wouldn’t, or couldn’t have been. It was very strange.

  ‘And then, after having been so close to him, having been like that, he suddenly turned against him. And it was over me! It was as if he had suddenly become jealous.’

  ‘Of Cunningham?’

  ‘Yes. With respect to me. Although there was no need to be, heaven knows. Cunningham didn’t care a fig for me. But Selim seemed suddenly to think he did and he didn’t like it and it all came exploding out.’

  ‘Perhaps he was jealous of you, not of Cunningham. You say they were very close. Where they lovers?’

  ‘I don’t think so. It’s sometimes hard to tell in Turkey – young men put their arms around each other, that sort of thing, but that doesn’t necessarily mean . . . But I don’t think Cunningham was that way inclined, not strongly, anyway. Selim? Well, perhaps. He was always so buttoned-up that it was hard to make him out. I thought at the time that perhaps it was because he was roy
al. You know, he was used to being the centre of attention and maybe thought I was distracting Cunningham’s attention from him. Anyway, he was very nasty to me.

  ‘And I didn’t thank Cunningham for getting me into it. And when I thought about it, I thought that he had done it deliberately. You know, had some game of his own and was just using me as a pawn in it. I didn’t like that. It seemed so calculating. I am, as I told you, very romantic. I like men to love me for myself, even if it’s only for a moment. And Cunningham was not very romantic at all. Even if he did want to swim the Dardanelles like Leander.’

  Chapter Seven

  Mystery at the Embassy the next morning: Mohammed, the porter-boatman, was not in his usual cubby-hole.

  ‘Damn the fellow!’ said Ponsonby, fretting. ‘I wanted him to take something for me. Where the hell is he?’

  Further investigation cast no light. The Chief Dragoman’s aid was enlisted.

  ‘Damn the fellow!’ said the Chief Dragoman. ‘Where he got to? Disappear up own ass, like Indian Rope Trick?’

  The building was scoured but Mohammed did not appear to be in it. Nor, it gradually emerged, had he been in it the previous day. At least, no one had seen him.

  ‘Perhaps he’s ill?’ said Ponsonby.

  ‘Perhaps he drown,’ said the Chief Dragoman hopefully. ‘Swim across like Cunningham Effendi. Glug-glug.’

  ‘Someone ought to check,’ said Ponsonby.

  That someone was clearly the Chief Dragoman. Equally clearly, he had no intention of descending into the town himself. Some minion had to be sent. Enquiry suggested that the most appropriate minion was Ibrahim, the landau driver, perhaps on one of his errands into the city. He, after all, was the man who knew the family. Or, at least, he knew Mohammed’s wife’s sister-in-law’s cousin, which in Istanbul amounted to much the same thing. Ibrahim was therefore instructed to look Mohammed up.