‘Know what?’
‘The saz player,’ he said. ‘He’s disappeared.’
‘I went to see him,’ said Mukhtar. ‘This morning, as arranged. But he wasn’t there. I went to Mr Cubuklu’s house first, as that was where we had arranged to meet. He goes there most mornings now to practise. But he wasn’t there. He hadn’t turned up this morning. So I went to his lodgings. He wasn’t there, either. Nor were his things.
‘Mr Cubuklu, I have to say, did not seem surprised. “They’re very shy creatures,” he said. I asked him if he knew where he might have gone, but he didn’t. He just shrugged his shoulders. “Back to the mountains, I expect.”
‘I was not very pleased, and perhaps I showed it, for later in the morning he summoned me and showed me a letter which he claimed he had just received. It was from Babikr. He thanked him for all he had done for him but said that he was going away. That was all. He didn’t say where he was going to. Just away.
‘I have, of course, been trying to find him. I thought he might still be in the city. I know about his relations with that woman –’ he gestured after Nicole – ‘so I went round to her. She says that she’s not seen him. I’ve tried the other people at the theatre but she was the only one who seems to have been able to make any kind of human contact with him.
‘I thought he might have hidden in some corner of the theatre. There are lots of places where someone could hide. But I’ve spent the whole morning going through the theatre and I’m sure he’s not there.
‘So perhaps he has gone away. If he has he will be on foot and will not have got very far. I will alert my colleagues and I will find him.’
‘Have you thought,’ said Seymour, ‘that he might be dead?’
Inside the theatre the band was striking up. It seemed to be a final rehearsal before the performance that evening.
Mukhtar hesitated.
‘There is nothing else, I think, that I can do here. I have people out looking for him. Or for a body. Including down on the waterfront where perhaps he might have gone if – But there is somewhere else I need to go. Perhaps you would like to come with me? You might find it interesting.’
The heat had gone out of the sun. In a short while it would be dark but in that short space of time when it was still light and just pleasantly warm people were coming out of their houses. Women were doing their evening shopping, coming back with great baskets on their head or ringlets of bread around their arms. In the bazaars little groups of men were gathering to drink tea and talk.
Mukhtar led him past the bazaar area to a long street shaded with plane trees beneath which men were sitting at small tables writing. It was, said Mukhtar, the Street of Scribes. Here at this end they were copying books. They bent over the pages, with their reed pens and colour box, gold leaf pan and burnisher, filling the sheets with exquisite script or patiently giving the leaves gold bindings or decorating the covers in designs which had been determined before Byzantium fell.
They were copying books, whole books; yet not more than a quarter of a mile away, from the huge warehouses in the bazaar area, he could hear the heavy pounding of modern printing presses. It seemed astonishing that the two could coexist, the ancient and the modern, the new and the traditional. But that, he thought, was Istanbul, caught, at this point in time, uneasily between the two.
Further along the street the men at the tables gave way to humbler scribes who sat on the ground and wrote letters for ordinary people, who queued before them patiently awaiting their turn. It was to these scribes that Mukhtar went. He took a letter out of his pocket and went along the row showing it to each scribe. They all shook their heads but then one of them nodded and pointed further along the row. Mukhtar went to the scribe and squatted down beside him and they had a long conversation.
Then he came back to Seymour.
‘This was the one who wrote the letter,’ he said. ‘He says that a man came to him this morning and asked him to write it for him. Babikr is, of course, illiterate and could not write himself.’
They began to walk back along the line of tables. On most of them now there was an oil lamp. Around each lamp was a halo of circling insects. Just beyond the edge of the halo the scribe worked obliviously on.
‘But I am puzzled,’ said Mukhtar. ‘I asked the scribe to describe the person who wanted him to write the letter. And it was not Babikr.’
Chapter Eleven
‘. . . forcing the Narrows.’
There was a little group around Chalmers and he had a map spread open on a table in front of him. The diplomats did not, however, seem very interested.
‘Well, thank you very much, Chalmers,’ said the Ambassador, beginning to get to his feet.
‘Most interesting!’ said Ponsonby, extricating himself from the group and heading hurriedly back inside.
‘Yes, but, look –’
‘Fascinating, old boy!’ said Rice-Cholmondely, seizing the opportunity to rise from his chair.
The group broke up with remarkable speed. In a moment the military attaché was the only person left. He looked around and his eye fell on Seymour, peacefully sipping his coffee on the other side of the terrace. Swiftly scooping up his map and the small table, he brought them across and placed them in front of him.
‘I know you’ll be interested to see this, Seymour.’
Seymour was not so sure. However, he was wedged in by the table in front of him, the wall behind, and the eager Chalmers.
Chalmers smoothed the map out.
‘Now, old boy, this is the Gallipoli Peninsula and here are the Dardanelles. And this is Gelibolu, the town, where I know you’ve been. Same word as Gallipoli, really, but for some reason most of the maps call the peninsula Gallipoli and the town Gelibolu. Now you can see at once the strategic significance of the Straits. Close them and no Russian ships can get out of the Black Sea and no one else can get in. The Ottomans would control the whole show.
‘And it would be easy to do. Just put a few guns here –’ he pointed with his finger – ‘at Kilid Bahr or Chanak Kale, or at Kum Kale and Sedd el Bahr, where the Straits are at their narrowest, and you’ve effectively done it. Lay a few mines, perhaps, and it’s all wrapped up.’
‘Mines?’
‘That’s right. Or, if you want, you could put guns here, at the other end of the Straits, just before it opens out into the Sea of Marmara. Here, say, just by the town of Gelibolu. No one could move. You would command,’ said Chalmers triumphantly, ‘the whole theatre.’
‘Theatre?’
‘Of war.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. Of course!’ And then: ‘War?’
‘Got to be prepared for all eventualities, old boy. And I can tell you one thing: Johnny Turk is preparing, for sure.’
‘Really?’
‘He certainly is. Now, look, old boy, you can see at once the significance of this new road he’s building. It goes right along the coast and it’s to give access to possible gun emplacements at the far end of the peninsula. Here, say, at Sedd el Bahr. Or maybe at Gaba Tepe. Or even up at Suvla Point. If you’ve got a big show, you’re going to need a lot of ammo and you’ve got to have a decent road behind you to supply it.’
‘There certainly is a road being built, but –’
‘The thing is, old boy, they’re already starting to carry cement along the first part of it.’
‘Cement?’
‘That’s right. To build the gun emplacements.’
‘Oh, yes. Of course. But –’
‘No doubt about it. That’s what it’s for.’
‘Yes. I see.’ A thought struck him. ‘Then maybe Cunningham was right?’
‘Cunningham? Right?’
‘If he really was spying –’
‘Now, look, old boy. I’m not saying he wasn’t spying. That’s just the sort of damned stupid thing he would do. Encroaching on other people’s ground. People who know how to do it properly. But . . . right?’
‘If that’s what he was doing . . .’
‘No, no. Look, old boy. Just look at the map. And bear in mind what I told you. Now, look, this is where he was landing. And where he was looking, presumably. Right in the middle of nowhere. Neither at Kilid Bahr nor at Kum Kale. Nor even at Gelibolu! He couldn’t be right. Johnny Turk is not that daft. What he was up to there, I don’t know, but he couldn’t have been spying. Not if he had any brains at all. Well, maybe he hadn’t got any brains and he was spying. But, really . . .’
‘He might well have known about the road, though.’
‘I don’t know that the road’s got that far yet.’
‘Oh, yes, it has. Mukhtar has been pushing it along, apparently. The mudir at the local village said so.’
‘Mukhtar? The terjiman?’
‘That’s right.’
‘If I were you,’ said the military attaché heavily, ‘I’d watch my step as far as that man is concerned.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘He’s got links,’ said Chalmers mysteriously.
‘Links?’
‘With the army. He’s in with a bunch of young officers. The Young Turks, they call them. They’re a radical bunch, all for change. Revolution, in fact. Now we don’t want that, do we? They think Turkey should be able to stand up for itself. Against the West, if necessary. That will be why he’s pushing the road.’
‘Well, I don’t know about –’
‘And holding back on Cunningham.’
‘Holding back?’
‘Well, he’s the one who’s supposed to be in charge of the investigation, isn’t he? And he’s not been doing too much investigation lately, has he? He’s been over in Istanbul looking at something else. Ask yourself why, old chap. Ask yourself why.’
Seymour had already asked himself: and had come to a different answer. He thought it very unlikely that Mukhtar had relinquished the investigation. There was no doubt, however, that the focus of his investigation had shifted: away from the lonely beach near Gelibolu and to the Theatre of Desires. There it had become tangled up, or, at any rate, linked with the enquiry into Lalagé’s death. And Seymour thought he could see why.
He was not sure, though, that he agreed with Mukhtar in his shift of focus. He thought there was still more to be found out at Gelibolu. And he thought he could see how to find it.
He intercepted Felicity as she came out for a break from the quartet’s rehearsal.
‘Would you mind? I know it’s a long way.’
‘If it would help,’ said Felicity, ‘I wouldn’t mind that. And I’d like the sail. And I’d quite like to talk to the mudir’s wife again. She’s the one who would know about the soldiers.’
Then he went to see Chalmers. The attaché’s eyes widened.
‘Good God!’ he said. ‘Never thought of that! But, of course, you could be right. I’ll get straight down there and nosey around. Give me a day or two. And the gun? Leave it to me, old chap. My sort of thing.’
Seymour went to Ponsonby to see if the attaché could be spared.
‘Spared?’ said Ponsonby. ‘Only too readily!’
Then he went down to the theatre.
There was some sort of fracas at the foot of the steps. The band was gathered in the street and the drum player, evidently enraged, was trying to get up the steps. Higher up, just out of reach, the dancing boy lounged provocatively against the pillar. Between them, trying to keep them apart, was the agitated theatre manager.
‘I’ll kill him!’ shouted the drum player, lunging.
The little manager somehow got in front of him and grabbed him.
‘No! No! Think of the performance, please!’
‘What performance?’ asked the dancing boy, studying his beautifully painted nails. ‘I don’t think there will be one. Not if you’re expecting me to go on.’
‘Please! Please!’ begged the little manager. ‘Stop this! Both of you.’
‘Let me get at him!’ shouted the drum player, trying to push Rudi out of the way.
‘Why don’t you get rid of this dreadful man?’ said the dancing boy, taking care to keep the manager between them. ‘In fact, why don’t you get rid of all of them? Let’s not pretend that anyone comes here for the music.’
‘Let’s not pretend that anyone comes here to see you,’ said the band’s leader furiously. ‘I don’t know why you bother with him,’ he said to the manager. ‘He’s nothing like as good as Lalagé was.’
‘Nor Nicole!’ said the drum player, shaking his fist.
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said the dancing boy airily, studying his nails again. ‘I heard someone say how pleased they were to see a return to the old traditions. And not to have to watch some Western tart.’
He hastily stepped back to evade the drum player’s lunge.
‘Blind, were they?’ said the kemengeh player.
‘Deaf, too, I would think,’ said another of the bandsmen.
‘I’ll have you know,’ said the dancing boy, drawing himself up, ‘that it was someone of importance.’
‘Not that daft Prince of yours, was it?’ said the band leader. ‘If it was, I can tell you one thing, it’s not your acting ability that he’s interested in.’
‘It’s your backside!’ shouted the drum player.
‘Crude fellow!’ observed the dancing boy. ‘I don’t know why you put up with him,’ he said to Rudi.
‘I don’t know why we put up with you!’
‘Because you have to,’ said the dancing boy. ‘Otherwise you wouldn’t have a leading lady at all. You know,’ he said to the little manager, ‘I don’t think I can go on this evening. I’m so exhausted from arguing with these louts. No, I really don’t think I can.’
‘You must! You must!’ cried Rudi.
‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t think I can. You really must make up your mind, Rudi. Who can you do without? A bunch of two-a-penny hack musicians, or the one leading lady you’ve got left?’
‘What about Nicole?’ said the drum player angrily.
‘Nicole?’ said the dancing boy disdainfully. ‘I thought we were talking about leading ladies?’
‘Please! Please! Everyone! The performance! It must go on. Everyone must pull together. Ahmet –’
‘Of course, I don’t want to disappoint my admirers –’
‘Of course you don’t!’ cried the manager eagerly.
‘But then I don’t know,’ said the dancing boy, affecting to stifle a yawn. ‘I’m so exhausted.’
‘You must! You don’t want to disappoint them, do you?’
‘Of course, they are important people. Influential people.’
‘That dopey Prince!’
‘Not that dopey Prince, actually. Another one. Two of them. Two Princes,’ said the dancing boy, savouring.
‘Bollocks!’ cried the band leader.
‘And not just him. His friend, too. A most discriminating man! He says –’ he scrutinized his nails again – ‘that I am a sensitive interpreter of the old tradition.’
‘Sensitive!’
‘Think about it,’ the dancing boy said to Rudi sweetly. ‘Who can you best do without? This rabble? Or –’ he coughed modestly – ‘me?’
He retreated inside hastily as the drum player at last managed to push past the little manager. Rudi dashed after them.
‘Bastard!’ they all shouted; to the air, unfortunately.
‘What was all that about?’ asked Seymour.
‘He told Rudi to get rid of us. He said we were playing too loudly.’
‘You were playing a bit loudly, Hassan,’ said the leader.
‘He was getting on my nerves. Poncing around on the stage like that! I’d had about as much of him as I could stand.’
‘You should have beaten him instead, Hassan,’ said the leader.
‘Yes,’ said the drum player thoughtfully. ‘Yes, but, then, I didn’t want to break a good drumstick. You don’t happen to have a spare string, do you?’ he said to the kemengeh player.
Rudi came back out and stood on the steps, mopping hi
s brow.
‘Actors!’ he said. ‘Or actresses. It’s the same thing. They’re more trouble than they’re worth. If it’s not on the stage, it’s off the stage. They’re either after someone or someone’s after them! First, it was Lalagé. Now it’s this little twerp. And we were doing so well, too! The first theatre in Istanbul, that’s what we’d become. And now . . .!’
He buried his face in his hands.
‘That, as a matter of fact,’ said Seymour, ‘is what I wanted to talk to you about. Can we go to your room?’
Rudi led him to his office, a small room in the complex of store rooms, props rooms and dressing rooms behind the stage. It was a dingy little room without a window but with tattered posters of the troupe on the walls, advertising not just their performances in Istanbul but also previous ones in Beirut, Damascus, Smyrna and some places Seymour had never heard of.
‘Ah!’ said Rudi, seeing Seymour looking at them. ‘Those were the days!’ He shook his head sadly: then, with one of those sudden turns of his, he switched immediately. ‘Not that I regret coming to Istanbul. In some ways it was the making of us. The making! The first theatre in Istanbul! Never in my wildest dreams –! Well, perhaps in my very wildest! There we were one day playing to a few old men and the stray cats and dogs that had wandered in, and then the next, the whole of Istanbul was flocking to our door! Command performances –’
‘Really?’ said Seymour.
‘Well, not quite,’ Rudi admitted. ‘But it would have come, it would have come. But royal patronage, certainly. And Palace interest.’
‘Yes,’ said Seymour, ‘I wanted to ask you about that. I gather it even influenced your choice of material –’
‘Not directly,’ Rudi broke in. ‘Not directly! I’ve always insisted on our freedom to put on exactly what we choose –’
‘There was something described as “the Palace skit” which, I gather, you took off at the Palace’s request –’
‘Ah, that was out of courtesy. Purely out of courtesy.’
‘And something you put in, or kept in, at the Palace’s request. Something to do with the army.’
‘Well, that was just, er, a good idea. Good advice. Always listen to good advice, that’s my maxim. No matter where it comes from.’
A Dead Man in Istanbul Page 15
