An Evil eye yte-4

by Jason Goodwin

  The corporal told Yashim it was clear from the amount of snow that covered him, and from the state of rigor, that the old man had been dead for quite some time.

  They had lowered him onto a sheet and brought him to the deserted hospital quarters upstairs.

  Yashim pulled back a sheet to examine the body. There was little else to be learned. The old eunuch had probably died instantly when he hit the tiles. His limbs, Yashim noticed, were beginning to thaw, but he lay still with his arms outstretched over his head, as if warding off some final blow; or in a parody of waking.

  Yashim spent a little more time examining the floor of the pool before he ordered the blood to be washed away. Upstairs, he stood by the balustrade, piecing together in his mind the circumstances of Hyacinth’s fatal fall. Finally, he took a stiff broom from one of the halberdiers and swept at the ice and slush that covered the courtyard, peering down now and then to see if anything turned up. He found a small coin and a tiny bead of green glass; but otherwise nothing.

  “And the yard was covered in snow and ice yesterday?”

  “It fell heavily yesterday morning, efendi,” the corporal explained.

  “And was not swept? There’s salt here, at least.”

  “We salted the open courts the night before, efendi. When it looked like snow.”

  “But nobody swept here yesterday?”

  The corporal hesitated. “No, efendi. The order was not given.”

  “And tell me, corporal, who gives the orders to sweep the courts?”

  “That would be the late lala Hyacinth, efendi. Indeed, I told the men yesterday to have the brooms ready, in expectation of his order. I suppose-” He hesitated again. “Forgive me, efendi, but it seems to me that he may have been inspecting the condition of the ground when he slipped.”

  “Thank you, corporal. I’d like to speak with the eunuchs now.”

  There were six of them, all old men like Hyacinth, sitting glumly around a brazier in the first room of the eunuchs’ quarters, up by the gate to the Second Court of the palace.

  “Yesterday, gentlemen, Hyacinth ate with you at the midday meal?”

  They tried to remember, their eyes full of concern, nodding dumbly.

  “It was the last time we saw him, Yashim,” one of them volunteered in his quavery, fluting voice.

  Yashim coughed gently. “And what did he talk about? Can you remember?”

  The old men blinked at one another, and at the ground.

  “About the snow? Did you talk about the weather?” Perhaps the corporal was right, and Hyacinth had been inspecting the condition of the courts. He could have gone to the balustrade, and slipped.

  “The cold weather,” one of the men said, nodding. “He never liked it, Yashim efendi.”

  “No. But did he say the ground needed to be swept?” Normally Yashim would have avoided such a direct question; but the old men’s memories needed jogging. “Did he mean to look?”

  “I don’t know, Yashim efendi,” one of the eunuchs replied, with a faint shrug. “But I don’t think that’s why he expected you to visit.”

  “Me to visit? Why?”

  The old man shook his head. “He didn’t say, Yashim efendi. But perhaps it was about the girl?”

  “Melda? What was the matter?”

  The elderly man cracked his long knuckles and looked unhappy. “She hasn’t been doing very well,” he said.

  “She’s been sick,” another man added. “And Hyacinth lala was concerned. That’s right. He wanted to talk to you.”

  “And he said I was coming? To see him here?”

  The old men exchanged glances. “I thought that’s what he said,” the first ventured.

  “Do you remember?” He appealed to the others, who considered.

  “That’s right,” one of them said finally. “He said you were coming later on, and he’d be glad to see you.”

  Yashim nodded and bit his lip. “Has the valide been informed?”

  The eunuchs glanced at one another. They’re rudderless, Yashim thought. All their lives they have deferred to others, to a Kislar aga, to Hyacinth, to the valide. But the valide had grown old, and the Kislar aga was no longer there.

  And Hyacinth was suddenly gone.

  “I take it none of you have spoken to her yet.” It was a statement, not a question. The eunuchs looked sorrowful, and faintly relieved. “I’ll tell her myself,” Yashim added.

  The old men thought that would be best. Yashim left them all nodding solemnly and stroking their beardless faces, and went to find the valide.

  101

  He found, instead, the valide’s slave.

  She put a finger to her lips and let him through the door.

  “She’s sleeping, Yashim efendi,” she whispered.

  Yashim nodded. He had momentarily forgotten the young woman’s name.

  “Perhaps I should wait,” he said.

  The girl’s head bobbed. Her eyes were wide. “It’s Hyacinth, isn’t it? He’s dead.”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, Tulin,” he added, remembering her name. For a moment he had felt like one of the old men. “He must have fallen on the ice. He died instantly.”

  “Hamdullah,” the girl mumbled: by the grace of God.

  “Hamdullah,” Yashim repeated. “He was an old man.”

  She said gently: “I can tell the valide about it, if you’d prefer.”

  “I don’t think so, Tulin. The valide has known Hyacinth for a very long time.”

  It came out as a rebuke, more emphatically than he’d meant. He glanced across and saw a slight flicker in the girl’s eyes as she registered what he’d left unsaid. That she was less significant than Hyacinth. That she was less to the valide than Yashim himself.

  He flashed her a brief, friendly smile. A girl of her age could scarcely comprehend what Hyacinth embodied: the shared experience, the years of enclosure and drama and ennui.

  He turned from Tulin and stood looking into the fire that smoldered in the vestibule.

  “Hyacinth was important to the valide in a way that might be hard to understand,” he began. He would have added that the old eunuch was like a lovely vase given to her years ago to keep, which was now lost and broken; but at that moment a bell tinkled faintly in the room beyond.

  “Tulin! Tulin!”

  She brushed past him swiftly, with a glance he found hard to interpret, and before he could say another word she had gone in to the valide.

  Yashim sighed, wondering whether he should stay. If he waited, it was at Tulin’s pleasure: he could hardly blunder into the valide’s chamber unannounced. He cocked his head. He could hear the valide muttering something next door, and the lower, soothing tones of Tulin’s voice; but farther off he could hear, too, the sound of the muezzin calling the Friday prayer.

  He started, surprised it had grown so late.

  At the door he brushed past a damp cloak hanging on a peg; the coldness made him shudder. He noticed a pair of galoshes on the floor, surrounded by a little muddied pool of meltwater, and the sight suddenly brought tears to his eyes. It was, he thought, just the sort of little thing Hyacinth would have fussed over, in his punctilious way.

  Yashim considered it the proper time to offer up his prayers.

  102

  The man with the knife walked down into the valley, looking for water.

  When the path crossed a stream he took off his jacket and his shirt in spite of the cold and washed his arms, his hands, scrubbing at congealed gore with his fingernails.

  When his hands were clean he washed his face, drenching his neck and shoulders with the icy water.

  He rubbed his wet hands over his chest, and flinched. The dog had gotten closer than he’d thought-not a cut, quite, but a red welt over one breast. He splashed it with water, and massaged it beneath his hands. He reached for his shirt and looked it over. The thick linen was not damaged: only when he held it to the light could he see a tiny hole.

  He rubbed the welt again. Then he washed his kn
ife.

  103

  The little mosque of the harem was half empty, but Yashim was sure that everyone in the diminished harem population was there: the retired women weeping for Hyacinth, and the bewildered old eunuchs he had met earlier. The corporal of the halberdiers was there, too, very correct in his manner, keeping his eyes fixed to the ground. Yashim watched the women carefully, out of the corner of his eye, but he did not see Melda; nor, of course, did Tulin or the valide make an appearance.

  The imam, himself very old and frail, made a short and scarcely audible reference to Hyacinth’s death, and more confidently led a prayer for his soul.

  Afterward Yashim found Tulin waiting for him in the vestibule.

  “I guessed you had gone for prayers, Yashim efendi. I told the valide you would come.” Her eyes crinkled as she smiled. “I haven’t said anything, you understand. I thought-”

  “Quite right, yes.” Yashim nodded.

  He stepped through the doorway and found the valide sitting up on the divan. She was wearing a bright silk jacket, so finely quilted that it hung loosely on her thin shoulders; under it a scarf and a fine lawn chemise. She looked exquisite.

  “Mysteries, Yashim.” She lowered the pince-nez with two fingers and inspected him over the rim. “Tell me all.”

  He inclined his head, gravely. It was just his luck to find the valide in this mood, sportive and light: she was dressed, he thought, to charm-not to receive bad news.

  He approached the divan, and she held out a hand indicating that he should sit.

  He took her hand. “There is no mystery, valide. It’s Hyacinth. It seems that-”

  “Hyacinth!” She pulled back her hand and fanned herself with it. “ La! I desired intrigue. I’m disappointed. Go on, Yashim.”

  “He’s dead.” Yashim paused. “He fell from the balustrade, in the Court of Favorites.”

  The valide said nothing.

  “He cracked his head on the floor of the pool,” Yashim continued. “He must have died instantly, hanum efendi.”

  The valide lifted her chin and glanced at the window. “It’s been snowing,” she said.

  Yashim followed her glance. “It snowed yesterday. The ground was very slippery, with ice.”

  “I told him to have it swept. He never liked the snow. Did you know that, Yashim? It used to frighten him, as a little boy. That’s why he was called Hyacinth.”

  “I’m very sorry, valide,” Yashim murmured.

  “Yes, yes. Et moi aussi.” She paused. “He fell from the balustrade, you say?”

  “Yesterday. They found him this morning.”

  “The question is, Yashim, who pushed him? An old man…”

  Yashim shook his head. “The balustrade is low, and the ground was slippery. Hyacinth was not so steady anymore.”

  “Rubbish,” the valide snapped. “I have never heard such a thing. When Hyacinth arrived he could barely see over the top of that rail. C’etait un nain, pratiquement.”

  Almost a dwarf? She was going a little far, Yashim thought; but yes, Hyacinth was never quite full size.

  “He could have simply slipped through the gaps,” the valide added. She looked thoughtful.

  Yashim said nothing. Of all the ways the valide could have reacted, this was not the way he would have expected. Nor wished for, either. She was turning the shock into a kind of puzzle.

  The valide had always enjoyed Yashim’s investigations. He had learned not to spare her the grisly details, either, for she had the stomach for them. She liked stories about the city, about other lives, the crimes and peccadilloes of the people, and Yashim had come to realize that the valide was unshockable. But this was Hyacinth; this was a man who had shared her own life, to a degree.

  It was Yashim’s turn to be shocked. The dead man, he felt, deserved better.

  “I thought you ought to know, at least,” he concluded, a little lamely.

  “Quite right, Yashim. And now I want you on the case. Who pushed him? Keep me informed.”

  She closed her eyes.

  104

  Melda startled at his approach.

  “Don’t worry. It’s me again. Yashim. I just came to see how you were.”

  There was no need to ask, he thought: she looked startlingly thin, the skin drawn tight over the bones of her face, her shoulders narrow and sunken. She was only twenty, but in a week she had aged like the valide herself.

  Her eyes flickered toward him once, and then settled back, to stare dully at a spot on the opposite wall.

  Hyacinth had placed her in the harem hospital, in a small, plain room without tiling or decoration. The high window was protected by a wooden shutter. Apart from the narrow cot on which she sat, there were two small octagonal tables and a stool with a plain woven seat.

  He drew the stool closer to the girl and sat down quietly.

  “Have you been eating, Melda?”

  She shivered, and drew her wrists across her stomach.

  “Are you cold? It’s a bit cold in here, isn’t it? Let’s get you to a fire,” he suggested gently. There must be better rooms than this, he thought.

  Melda gave a jerk and looked away. Yashim bit his lip.

  “You’re thinking about Elif,” he began slowly. “When you’re alone like this, you can think things and feel things that make you more worried and afraid.”

  Her eyelids quivered: she was like a wild animal caught in a trap.

  “I thought you would be better here,” he said. “You are safe.” He was about to add that she was being looked after, when he reflected that Hyacinth was dead. Had they forgotten her, in the pandemonium?

  “Let’s get you to a better room,” he said. She needed food and warmth.

  Melda gave a compulsive shake of her head, and shifted her gaze to stare down by his feet. She slowly twisted her head until she was looking out of the corner of her eye. As if she were afraid of what he would do next.

  “I won’t hurt you, Melda. I want to help.”

  She blinked. Her white lips moved.

  Yashim strained forward to catch a sound. “What is it, Melda? What did you say?”

  “Elif-had a baby.”

  “How? How could she have a baby, Melda?”

  “Not-that one,” Melda stuttered; her head jerked as she spoke. “A-stare-baby.”

  “A what? What is that?”

  She glanced at him in surprise. “Elif-she-she looked. At him. That’s what’s happened. That’s where it began.”

  “What began, Melda?”

  “It grows inside you, just like a real baby-but it’s not. It’s a demon. It’s from the demon in the man.”

  “The demon, Melda? Tell me about the demon.” He took her hands in his and chafed them softly, struggling to keep the astonishment off his face as Melda explained, falteringly, what had happened to Elif: how Donizetti Pasha’s glance had sowed the seed of a stare-baby, and how Elif had become sick.

  “It was growing,” she said. “Donizetti Pasha can’t help it; he’s a man, it’s in his nature. But she-she wanted to get rid of it.”

  She covered her face and began to weep hot, real tears. Yashim welcomed them: anything, he thought, was better than that frozen impassivity.

  “And then-what then?”

  Melda wiped her eyes. “Then she took some things to drink, to make-to make-the stare-baby come out.”

  “What drinks? How-”

  “They made her bleed.” Her mouth twisted into a horrified grimace. “They. Made. Her. Bleed. She-said-she was on fire.”

  Yashim gazed at her, aghast. Elif ’s death had always seemed to him to be perverse, unnatural-but he had never imagined it like this.

  “I’ll get you somewhere warmer, and you should take something. Some soup. We can talk again later, if you like.”

  He stood up. She gave no sign of hearing him. At the door he turned and she was still sitting like a frightened hare, showing the whites of her eyes as she watched the place where he had been.

  At the end of t
he corridor he tapped at the door of the orderly’s room. There was no reply. He opened the door and checked: it was empty.

  He let out an exasperated sigh. Hyacinth had seemed so ineffective, but his death revealed just how much the running of the harem had depended on him. Sweeping the ground, feeding a girl in the hospital, getting the other eunuchs off their backsides: since he’d gone the whole place seemed to have ground to a halt.

  With a flash of anger he surged down the corridor toward the eunuchs’ quarters and burst into their common room.

  Within three minutes, alarmed old men were running hither and thither in pursuit of their duties. Yashim went to the kitchens, where he found a cook washing rice while another scraped carrots.

  “Soup. What have you got?”

  The man stirring the rice looked at him stupidly and shrugged, mouth open. The man scraping carrots jerked his chin. “The stock’s all there. What do you want?”

  Yashim lifted the lid and sniffed: good chicken broth.

  “Can you clear the broth?”

  The carrot man nodded.

  Yashim had visited the kitchens before, but this was the first time he had hefted a palace pan or wielded a palace knife. He selected a small heavy iron pan.

  “We use those ones for the sultan, efendi.”

  “The sultan is no longer here, my friend,” Yashim replied. “Where are your spices?”

  He laid the ingredients out on the chopping board: onion, garlic, a long red chili, and a carrot that the man had scraped clean. He set the sultan’s pan on a gentle heat and covered its base with olive oil, adding a small knob of butter before he chopped the onion into very small pieces.

  The knife, he noticed, was as keen as his own, and heavier: it would split a silk scarf.

  Finding himself in the greatest kitchen in Istanbul, Yashim set about making one of the simplest dishes he knew: lentil soup.

  He scraped the seeds out of the chili and chopped it together with the garlic, admiring the balance of the knife and the slight feathered curve toward its tip. The butter had melted; he shook the pan and swept in the vegetables, with a big pinch of cumin and coriander.