Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

He pressed the watch into Compston’s hand. The young man gurgled with surprise.

“B-by all that’s holy, Yashim efendi! Pater’s Hunter! Well, well… The blighter had it off me by the quayside, when I was taking a walk with a girl… snatched it out of my weskit. I’ve been running ever since. And a pretty girl, too.”

He held the watch up to his ear. “Still ticks! We can iron out the creases, Yashim efendi. Good work! Chain’s gone, though.” He paused. “You didn’t happen to get the chain?”

“I’m afraid the chain broke off,” Yashim replied drily.

“Too bad. Little cutpurse, good day’s haul. But not the Hunter, eh?”

“It was only chance-”

“Bloody miracle. Pater’s Hunter,” Compston murmured. “Can’t thank you enough, Yashim efendi. Pretty much the old man’s parting shot. Go forth, young man, and all that. Solid gold. Not that it’s what matters. I mean to say.”

“It was nothing.”

“Look, if you’re heading for the city I could send you on.” He linked his arm in Yashim’s, and they strolled down the track together. “I brought the embassy yawl.”

They reached the quayside a few minutes later, Compston still extolling the virtues of his father’s watch, eager to examine it under the light.

“No, not a scratch I can see. Tick-tock, good as new. Pity about the chain, but it’s the watch that matters. Hi! Caiquejee!”

He gestured cheerfully to the boatman. “New passenger! Alexander the Great. Hop in, Yashim efendi. Stavros gets you back to Istanbul in under an hour, or I’m a Dutchman.”

“You aren’t coming?”

“Back to strolling, efendi.” Compston raised a hand. “Take the yawl. Least I can do for you.” He glanced about the quay. “Now, where’s that dashed girl?”

One by one, along the edge of the Golden Horn, the fishing boats drawn up on the strand lit their lamps as dusk descended over the Bosphorus. Dark figures crouched beneath their prows, tending the braziers where they cooked their fish: mackerel, mostly, headed, gutted, and then split apart to sizzle for a few minutes over the glowing charcoal. The warm air reeked of fish oil dripping into the fires.

A Nubian sailor slapped his hams and squatted down by one of the braziers. The fisherman took his coin, and tipped a hot mackerel fillet into a flat roll.

Overhead, in the branches of a plane tree, Kadri licked his lips, and waited.

The embassy caique swept over a glassy sea. Yashim lay back, reveling in the wind, pondering his discovery.

At length he saw the dim outline of the Topkapi Palace, lights in the tower of the Third Court, and the curve of the dome of Ayasofya. As the ferry wheeled into the Golden Horn, the great mosques of Bayezid and Suleyman seemed like curious configurations of the hilltops; beneath them, all along the Stamboul shore, a parade of tiny lights winked in the gathering darkness where the fishermen had set up their braziers. The quayside was empty. The fishermen had already gone, leaving their nets. The men who hung around the quays had retreated-some to the Greek bars that thronged the lower streets around the port, others to their wives and children.

A whiff of grilled fish wafted across the water.

The fishing boats drawn up on the strand were all alike, all selling mackerel fresh from the sea, and Yashim found it hard to choose one over another. He saw a sailor sitting on his hams and munching a sandwich with evident enjoyment: the firelight flickered on his black skin, and his teeth were very white in the darkness.

Yashim approached the boat and pointed to the flaming grill. “I’d like one nicely done,” he said.

The fisherman nodded, dropped a split mackerel into a round of bread, and held it up. And at that moment something odd happened.

The sandwich disappeared.

Yashim’s hand met the empty hand of the fisherman, and they both startled.

Overhead a branch creaked in the darkness.

Yashim took a step back and looked up. He saw the silhouette of the tree stark against the stars, and with it an impression of something moving along the branch above. He stepped back on his heels for a clearer view, and then darted under the tree. The lower branches were too high to reach, but they swooped out to almost touch the roof of a single-story godown.

He heard a twig snap. Yashim ran toward the godown, put one foot on the sill of its great barred window, and grabbed at the lowest branch.

Aware that his retreat was in danger of being blocked off, Kadri began to run along the branch, balancing with open arms and still holding the stolen sandwich. As he reached the end his body sank; he bunched his muscles and prepared to jump.

Under Yashim’s weight the branch dipped and swayed.

Kadri sprang. The angle was steeper than he had expected: the ground had moved beneath his toes.

He hit the parapet with his belly, and gasped as the wind was knocked out of him. A sharp pain shot up his knee.

Yashim sprang to the sill. The boy thrashed his legs; Yashim reached up with both hands, took hold of an ankle, and leaped back.

He landed hard on the ground. The boy was beside him on his hands and knees, head hanging, still gasping for breath.

Kadri turned to the stranger who had brought him down.

To his bewilderment, the stranger began to laugh.

“You’re Kadri,” he said, nudging something with his foot. “And that, I’m afraid, was my mackerel sandwich.”

Compston turned from the landing stage, casting about for the girl.

Unable to see her beneath the trees, he retraced his steps along the path, stooping to pick something off the ground. Such was popular reverence for the Koran that it was unusual to find scrap paper in the street-people tended to rescue it, in case it contained the Holy Word.

But here was a bundle of papers, riffling in the evening breeze. Compston grunted in surprise. It was too dark to see what was written on the paper, so he thrust the packet under his waistcoat and went on, thinking about the fair Armenian and wondering where the deuce she had got to.

High above the Golden Horn, on the first hill of the city of seven hills, small lights burned in the near-deserted harem of the Topkapi Palace.

The visit to Besiktas for the unfruitful Ceremony of the Birth had left the valide feeling fretful and tired. Returning to the Topkapi Palace, she had heard her own shuffling footsteps echoing on the cobbled passageway.

Now she lay on her divan, and sank her cheek onto her hand.

“I am bored, Tulin. For the first time in my life I am bored, and quite alone. I used to enjoy teasing my son, but now he is gone, and Abdulmecid is not the same. I think it is your fault.”

“My fault, hanum?” Tulin’s eyes filled with tears.

“Your fault. I’m sure of it.” The valide gave a nod. “Yes, before you came I was more content. I used to read my books. I even liked to watch the birds. And now? Now I feel I have been a widow for a long, long time.”

“If I make you feel like this, then you must send me away, valide.” Tulin’s lower lip trembled.

“And where would you go, ma cherie? What would become of you? Answer me that.”

Tulin could not find an answer. She touched her forehead to her mistress’s slippered foot. “I am your slave, valide hanum.”

“Hmmph. Don’t worry, little one, I will not let you down. You have been good to me, and you are patient.”

“But I make you unhappy? Oh, please say it isn’t true!”

“ Tiens, you are a lively girl, and you make me feel that I have wasted my life.”

A look of horror passed across the girl’s face. “You are the principal valide. You have brought a son and a grandson to the imperial throne. Is that not enough?”