Jason Goodwin - The snake stone

The woman said something. Widow Matalya smiled and nodded. “That’s right. There’ll be a lot of crying to be done, and you could do with building up your strength.” She carefully broke a bit of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. Frank she might be, but she was like everyone else, like a little bird. A pretty little bird.

“This is good bread. The olives are good,” she said kindly. “Learn to smile again! You’re barely twenty-five, I’d say, and who knows what Frankish gentleman wouldn’t jump to that smile?” She put out a hand and stroked the girl’s hair. “And you’ve got lovely hair, I’ll say that for you. You’re a real peach.”

The girl put her hand over the old woman’s and held it there, pressed against her hair, with her eyes shut.

“She’ll live,” Widow Matalya later told Yashim. “But it’s a cruel shame, efendi. She is very far away from her own people. The only word she knows is chai. Not that she asks, she’s very sweet. But can you-can you talk to her?”

He met her in the yard at the back of the house: Widow Matalya had thought it somehow more proper. Amelie was sitting on the stump of an old column, under the shade of a fig tree, wearing a new blouse and the skirt she had worn the day before. Her thick curls were held up in a ribbon, and her neck was bare. Even though her eyes were red, Yashim thought she looked very lovely.

“Madame Lefevre,” he began. “I am-I am so sorry.”

She cast her eyes to the ground. “I had not expected…” She trailed off. Then she looked up, tilting her chin. “You have been very kind, monsieur.”

Yashim looked away. He rubbed a fig leaf between his fingers. “I meant to tell you straightaway. And did not know how.”

He heard her breathe. “Please tell me-how it happened.”

He told her. He spoke about his Thursday dinner, the first time they had met, making it sound as if they had become friends. He told her about the way Lefevre had reappeared, afraid, and the way he had sought his help, with the story of the ship, and the caique, leaving out little.

“You sent him to his death,” she said, trembling.

Yashim inclined his head. “I had no idea,” he said. “It seems to me now-I think he went to meet someone. Before he left.”

Her eyes searched his face. “It would be like him,” she said. “Forgive me, efendi. You did your best.”

Yashim thought that nothing she could have said would have made him feel so small.

“I shall take you to the embassy,” he said.

“The embassy,” she repeated dully.

“Your people, madame,” he said. “They can take care of you.”

She bent down to slide her finger between the leather and her stockinged foot as if there were something there. She straightened up. She let slip the ribbon from her hair and with a shake of her head let it fall in a cascade over her shoulders.

“I am sorry, Monsieur Yashim. I am Amelie Lefevre. Nobody-least of all an embassy-takes care of me.”

The man with a knife moved easily through the city. Its blade was very bright and very sharp, and it hung openly from his belt without a scabbard.

Sultanahmet. Bayezit. It was the hour of prayer: from the minarets overhead the muezzins were calling the faithful to their devotions. The man didn’t hear them. He didn’t notice the crowds, streaming toward the mosques. He skipped the turning toward Bayezit and carried on at a loping run toward the third hill. The crowds meant nothing to him: they could not impede him as he moved across the city, always at the same pace, making the familiar turns.

Now Bayezit was behind him.

The man with a knife knew this, although his eye was fixed on darkness. This, he thought, would be his single contact today with the people who sifted and surged through the city streets.

He would fulfill his errand, and the crowd would still move in its appointed rhythm. The city’s appetite would remain unchanged.

It would pray, and wash, and drink, and eat, because it was bigger than a single man. Like a scoop of water taken from a tank, the fate of one man would make no difference to the people of Istanbul: they would close over his head like water.

And the secrets would be preserved.

Fener. At Fener he moved from the darkness into the light.

Still the people would not bother him. He had an errand to fulfill.

He followed the instructions. He located the door, which was unlocked. He did not think the door would be locked.

He went in quietly: so quietly he could easily hear the murmur of an old woman talking to herself.

He found the stairs, and they were dark and enclosed. They suited him.

At the top of the stairs there would be another door.

And the weight of the dagger that he drew from his belt felt comfortable in his hand.

Yashim flopped down into the old armchair in Palewski’s drawing room. The ambassador sat on a stool, cradling his violin. Now and then he plucked one of the strings and fiddled with the pegs.

“Doesn’t like the heat,” he explained. “Or neglect, for that matter. Gone very dry.” He picked at the four strings.

Yashim grunted. “Lefevre was paying Xani off.”

“Very decent of him.”

“I imagine he had an ulterior motive.”

Palewski bent over his fiddle and started tuning a peg.

“The thought occurred to me. Lefevre could have sidled up to Xani and promised him a fortune to find out if the serpents’ heads were really here. But Xani hasn’t been in the house for weeks.”

“The fortune, as you call it, was already paid. Lefevre wouldn’t have necessarily known that Xani wasn’t around here much. But now Lefevre’s dead-and Xani has disappeared.”

“Do you think he got scared?”

Yashim ignored the question. “Have you checked that the serpents’ heads are still here?”

Palewski looked up at the ceiling. “Do you know, Yashim, the one treasure I possess outright? That’s actually mine?” He picked up the bow, leaned forward on his stool, and tapped the door of the sideboard. The door swung open without a sound. Behind it stood a bottle. It was squat and green and had a wax cap. “My father bought a whole case the year I was born,” Palewski said mistily. “Martell. The last bottle.”

Yashim sighed. “The heads, Palewski.”

“Funny you mention it. I moved them from the armoire just yesterday. Terribly heavy. Put them under my bed.”

“Good idea,” Yashim said.

“I thought so. On the other hand,” Palewski added cheerfully, “I seem to have acquired a guardian angel. Someone who doesn’t want me to lose them. Kills Lefevre. Kills a moldy old bookseller he dealt with. Kills the Jew, who could connect Lefevre with Xani. Xani disappears. Maybe he’s dead, too. And so the trail goes cold. I keep the heads.”

He closed the sideboard with the tip of his bow.

Yashim rolled his eyes. “Maybe you’re the killer, Palewski. You have the most obvious motive.”

“Motive, yes.” Palewski smiled and laid the violin down. “But you, Yashim, had the better opportunity.”

“We’re in danger, Palewski. Perhaps Marta, too.”

His friend looked up. “Marta? She doesn’t know about the serpents’ heads.”

“So you say. But they don’t know that, do they? I think you should send her away for a while.”

“I will,” Palewski said doubtfully. Both of them knew instinctively that Marta would refuse. “And your Madame Lefevre?”

“My Madame Lefevre, as you call her, was never involved. Anyway,” he added, glancing at Palewski’s violin, “she’s staying with Widow Matalya. Not with me.”

He reached forward and picked up the violin to miss the expression on the ambassador’s face.