Jason Goodwin - The snake stone

When the skins were charred Yashim swaddled the eggplants in a cloth. He sharpened a knife. After a minute or two he began to scrape the skins with the edge of the blade. Underneath the blackened skin the flesh was white; he remembered Mavrogordato’s arms on the desk, and pulled a face.

Elvan came in with a jug of milk and a screw of pepper.

“You remembered, white?”

“Of course, efendi.” The little face took on an expression of injured innocence, and Yashim laughed.

“You may keep the change,” he said.

He wiped the eggplants with a soft cloth, then pounded them in the mortar. He warmed up the pan again and slowly began adding the milk, drop by drop.

In the French embassy in Pera the ambassador would be penning his report. Word by word the case against Yashim would form and swell, in the smoothest diplomatic style: accusing no one, implying much.

There was a tap on the door. Yashim frowned. “Elvan?” He called, not taking his eyes off the pan.

He heard the click of the latch and felt a prickling at the back of his neck.

Very carefully he set the pan aside. He glanced at the door, slowly swinging inward, then at the knife on the block.

“Who’s that?” he called. “Who’s there?”

Madame Mavrogordato’s face was set. At the opposite end of the long table, Monsieur Mavrogordato cast her a furtive glance and helped himself to a dish of lamb. Madame Mavrogordato watched the footman place the dish on the side table.

“You may remove Alexander’s setting, Dmitri. When he comes in, he can eat in the kitchen. And tell him that his father wants to see him.”

“Yes, madame.”

Dmitri withdrew. Mavrogordato picked up his knife and fork.

“So!” Her voice was like a milled edge.

His hands froze in midair.

“So! You can eat!”

“We have to eat, Christina, or we’ll die,” said Mavrogordato unhappily. His knife wavered uncertainly over the lamb.

Madame Mavrogordato stared him down. “Sometimes, Monsieur Mavrogordato, one must choose between disgrace and death.”

“Now, Christina, please…” He put the knife and fork down gently by his plate.

“Disgrace, Monsieur Mavrogordato,” she intoned. “This time I want you to speak to Alexander. If he carries on in this way, he will earn a reputation for himself.”

Mavrogordato nodded.

“A reputation, Monsieur Mavrogordato. And the Ypsilanti girl is almost seventeen.”

Mavrogordato nodded.

“We cannot allow the match to fail. The Ypsilanti may not be so rich, but they have-” Her head quivered gently. She could not quite bring herself to say the word.

Mavrogordato nodded again. He blinked. After a pause he picked up his knife and fork. “A strange fellow came to see me today,” he said casually.

Madame Mavrogordato did not reply.

“He-ah-was called Yashim. I believe he was a eunuch.”

Five minutes later, when Mavrogordato’s lamb had congealed on the plate, he wished he hadn’t changed the subject, after all.

Yashim picked up the knife and took a few steps toward the swinging door.

A woman was standing in the doorway. She wore a blue traveling cloak edged with satin, its hood drawn up to hide her face. A foreigner. Her hands were loosely clasped in front of her. A small carpetbag with a leather handle lay on the floor beside her.

Yashim’s fingers relaxed. He took a step back.

The woman reached up with both hands and pulled back the hood. Brown curls tumbled around her shoulders and a pair of steady brown eyes met his.

“You are Yashim efendi, n’est-ce pas?”

Her voice was soft and light. Yashim nodded, unable to speak.

“ Tres bien. I am Madame Lefevre. Where is my husband?”

Yashim felt the blood pounding in his ears. He heard himself say, “Entrez, madame, je vous en prie,” and he bent down to take her bag. She moved at the same moment, and their shoulders brushed together.

Yashim gestured to the sofa.

Madame Lefevre glanced around his apartment, and Yashim noticed how tall she was, almost his own height. She crossed the room with long-legged grace, smoothed her cloak behind her, and sat down on the edge of the divan. With a shake of her head she ran a hand under her curls to free them from the collar of her cloak. Beneath it she wore a dress of sprigged cotton; the toes of her black pumps could be seen peeping out from below the hem. The evening sunlight reddened her curls and caught the curve of her cheek. Her eyes, Yashim noticed, were huge.

She gave him a tired smile. “Please,” she said, reaching for the bag. It was in Yashim’s hands. He had forgotten it.

He laid it on the floor, close to her feet.

“I was cooking,” he said shyly, “when you arrived.” He didn’t know what else to say. He looked down and saw the knife in his hands. He turned away to put it down. “Madame Lefevre. I had no idea.”

She made a face, which meant “What can I say?”

Yashim passed his hand over his brow. “And you, madame-you have just arrived in Istanbul?”

“From Samnos, only. I was cataloging some of my husband’s finds.” She laid her finger on the tip of her nose and closed her eyes. “Imam bayildi! I smell the eggplants.”

Yashim blinked in astonishment. I must tell her, he thought to himself. I must tell her now, before it’s too late.

“Not imam bayildi,” he said, raising a finger. “Hunkar beyendi.”

“Hunkar beyendi,” she repeated. “Tell me again, what does it mean?”

“It means-the sultan approved.”

“And imam bayildi? The imam fainted?”

Yashim smiled. “Yes. He was so happy.”

“Ah, yes. And when you cook-Hunkar beyendi, are you not happy, too? Or do you merely approve?” She pulled a frown, like a sultan, then undid the clasp on her cloak and jumped lightly to her feet.

Yashim laughed. “No. I am-I am happy then.”

“Forgive me,” Madame Lefevre said. She glanced around his little kitchen. “I have interrupted your happiness.” She saw the milk jug and peered into the pan. “You are making-it’s a roux, n’est-ce pas?”

“We call it miyane.”

“If we’re quick, it will not be too late!” Madame Lefevre swept her hair off one shoulder and seized the pan. “You stir, monsieur-and I’ll add the milk.”

Stop her, Yashim thought. Tell her what she has to know.

He took the pan and laid it back onto the coals, stabbing the ball of flour and butter and milk with a spoon. It was still warm: Madame Lefevre was right, he needed to carry on or it would spoil. Madame Lefevre took up the jug and carefully allowed a drop into the pan, and then another, and another. They faced each other across the handle of the pan. Madame Lefevre looked up and her eyes were smiling.

“Look, it’s working!”

The miyane began to spread across the bottom of the pan. A little milk slipped down the outside of the jug and dripped onto the table.

“There,” he said. “Stop.”

He reached for the pepper. “We always use white pepper,” he explained, “for the beauty of the dish. It should be very pale.”

He felt awkward as he said it: he was aware of her own pale skin.

“ En effet, it’s a bechamel,” she said.

“It’s a very old recipe, in this part of the world. Butter, flour.”

Madame Lefevre looked interested. “A nomadic dish? Why not? Perhaps we learned it from you?”

“Well,” Yashim hesitated, “I think so, yes. Maybe not directly.” This was one of his pet theories-how had they got onto that so soon? “The Italians were in Pera. Perhaps they brought the idea to France.”

“Catherine de’ Medici,” Madame Lefevre said.

“I think so!” Yashim grinned with delight. “I read it in Careme-listen!” Then he remembered. “At least-I had it before.” He went to the shelves. “Careme, here we are!” He flicked the pages. “I was just reading this: ‘The cooks of the second half of the 1700’s came to know the taste of Italian cooking that Catherine de’ Medici introduced to the French court.’ Perhaps you are right, madame.”