Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

“And the Totenkopf?”

“He barely reacted. Picked up the skin and dropped it into the wastepaper basket.”

“The Galytsins, Yashim, have lied for the tsar since the time of Ivan the Terrible. I once met a fellow who had been tutored in the Galytsin house. He said even their tutor told lies. Alexander Petrovich was a very good pupil, apparently.” He ate the mackerel dolma. “Why did Husrev decide to let them know?”

Yashim shrugged. “In the interest of neighborly relations. Better it came from us than from the little man on the ferry.”

“Hmm.” Palewski reached for another dolma. “A Russian murdered on the islands. Russian ambassador demanding explanations. A useful little crisis for the grand vizier.”

“Useful?”

“Dust in the sultan’s eyes, Yashim. Something to frighten him a bit. Husrev wants to show his mettle. You’d almost think that if this crisis hadn’t arisen, he’d have been tempted to invent it himself.”

Yashim shook his head. “The man had been in the water for weeks. Husrev Pasha couldn’t have known the sultan was about to die.”

“We all knew, Yashim.”

“Not to the day. Not to the week.”

Palewski sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Husrev’s no shrinking violet, but getting a Russian agent killed on the off chance? It’s too much.” He reached for another dolma. “And in the middle of nowhere, too.”

“Chalki?”

“It’s an island, for goodness’ sake. A place you go to escape the heat, or for Greek lovers to meet by prearranged chance.”

Yashim nodded. “That’s been bothering me. Chalki is only for monks and fishermen.” He picked up a cabbage leaf stuffed with pine nuts and rice. “I’d understand if a Russian military agent ended up dead in a Tophane backstreet. But Chalki’s a trap for the killer.”

“True.” Palewski pursed his lips. “Why not meet in the Belgrade woods-or in a quiet cafe up the Bosphorus?”

Yashim blinked. “Because Chalki was where they had to meet.”

Palewski looked perplexed. “Had to meet, Yash?”

“Obviously, yes, if the Russian came to meet someone who was on Chalki already.”

“One of the monks?”

Yashim wasn’t thinking of the monks.

His mind roved back to that afternoon on the rocks, among the Greek fishermen.

“Tomatoes!” Yashim slumped back into the chair. “The pasha’s mansion-that konak, among the trees.”

“The garden of forbidden fruit? The fisherman said it was empty.”

“That’s not quite what he said. He said the pasha had gone away.”

“He did, you’re right. What pasha?”

“The Kapudan pasha,” Yashim said slowly. “He took the fleet off, before the sultan died.”

The admiral of the Ottoman fleet was always known as the Kapudan pasha: the term was from capitano, borrowed-like so many other Ottoman nautical words-from the seafarers of Italy.

“The Kapudan pasha? Fevzi Ahmet, of the ghastly bridge?”

Yashim sank his head into his hands. “Fevzi Ahmet Pasha,” he murmured. “Commander of the fleet. I should have known.”

“Known what, Yash?”

“That he could do a thing like this.”

Palewski raised an eyebrow. “I had no idea you knew him.”

“Oh, yes,” Yashim replied softly. “I knew him-very well.”

At the palace at Besiktas, the lady Talfa turned her head slightly in the mirror, and caught a glimpse of Elif, frowning.

“That will do, Yusel,” the lady Talfa said, waving her black slave away. She stared at Elif and Melda in the mirror for a few moments. “Your charge is a little girl. She is called Roxelana.”

“I am afraid, hanum, that will not be possible.”

Elif bowed her head as she spoke and kept her hands held humbly to her chest. Talfa couldn’t see her look of sleepy satisfaction, but she heard it in the sweetness of her voice.

“Have you forgotten who I am?” Talfa, too, could make her voice sound sweet.

“No, hanum efendi. I know who you are.”

“And you, Melda? It is Melda, isn’t it? You think it will not be possible, either?”

Melda half glanced sideways; her head, like Elif’s was bowed. “I–I don’t know, hanum efendi.”

“Well, isn’t that strange? Elif thinks it quite impossible, and you don’t know.” Talfa picked up a tiny cup and sipped the coffee. She set the cup down again, and swiveled on her stool. “The last time we met, you seemed so very sure of everything. Now, I think, we are beginning to learn, aren’t we?”

Elif cocked her chin. “We are orchestra girls, hanum efendi. Melda plays viola and the mandolin. I am first violin. Donizetti Pasha makes us practice for hours every day.”

Talfa touched her hair. “Do try to lighten your voice, my dear. For the sake of the sultan and his other ladies, if not your own. There are plenty of girls who have the harem voice, so I suggest you pay them a little more attention. Now,” she added, spreading her hands, “it’s lovely that you can play, of course. But I fail to see what your music has to do with the little girl.”

Elif compressed her lips, feeling the heat in her face. “We have our duties, Talfa hanum efendi,” she said. “To the sultan’s music.”

Talfa tilted her head and gave a silvery giggle. “I think you’ll find that playing an instrument is a privilege, my dear, not a duty. So it has always been considered in the harem. It passes the time, you see. Which leaves you, in effect, with no duties at all. You are a simple girl, but you must see that your sultan feeds and clothes you. Do you expect to give nothing in return?” She shook her head, smiling. “No, no. You will take charge of the little girl. You will teach her the ways of a harem lady, as best you can. It is by teaching that one learns oneself. She is a girl of rank, so you will behave very well with her.” She dipped her finger. “You will keep your eye on her, at all times. And I,” she added, “will keep an eye on you.”

She clapped her pudgy hands together, twice, before Elif or Melda had a chance to reply.

Yusel stepped in at the door, and bowed.

“Our guests are leaving,” Talfa said, waving a hand. “You may take the coffee away.”

The two girls backed out of the room, their heads lowered.

Outside the door, in the court, Melda avoided Elif’s eye.

“The bitch!” Elif hissed. “I’d like to kill her-and that little brat!”

She stamped her foot and balled her fists.

“Don’t you look at me like that,” she snarled, through gritted teeth. The tears stood in her eyes. “You’d best be my friend, Melda. Because I’ll do it, someday. Just you watch!”

Yashim awoke to a pounding in his head and squinted at the sunlight. He rubbed his temples, swung his legs off the divan, and groaned.

The pounding did not stop.

“ Evet. I’m coming, I’m coming,” he grumbled, picking his way past the empty dishes. A young soldier stood at the door.

The soldier saluted.

“Come in.”

As he stepped in he whipped off his kepi and tucked it under his arm, standing stiffly amid the remains of last night’s feast. The half-empty brandy bottle stood on a low table close to the soldier’s knee, but the soldier was too rigid to notice it.

Also, Yashim realized, probably too young to recognize it.

“I have come from the palace school, efendi. The principal requests that you attend on him immediately.”

The palace school-of course. In Yashim’s day, the young men had worn turbans and pantaloons.

Yashim sighed. “Very well. If you would be so kind as to run down to the cafe on Kara Davut and order coffee for me? One for yourself, too, if you like.”

The boy positively quivered with correctness. “We should not lose time, efendi.”