Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

At the top of the stairs he went in, silently, and settled into a chair, relishing as ever the familiarity of these strange things: an armchair, a mantelpiece, a slender bottle of something pale and unlabeled on a mahogany side table.

Yashim lay back and listened to the notes that flowed from Palewski’s violin.

When the last notes had died away, Palewski laid the fiddle on the side table. “Chopin,” he said. “The Prelude in A Major.”

“It’s very beautiful.”

“It’s very short.”

He opened a cupboard. “ Palinka. Hungarian schnapps. Keeps out the cold.”

“I’m quite happy with this fire,” Yashim said, stretching out his hands.

“Marta had it swept,” Palewski said. He poured the plum brandy into two glasses and set one down beside Yashim. “In case you change your mind,” he added. “What we really want here is a stove, of course. Can’t think why we didn’t put one in while we still had the money.”

Yashim knew that Palewski was referring to ancient history: it was many decades since any Polish ambassador had had money.

Palewski rubbed his hands. “Mediterranean people are like crickets,” he said. “You never believe it’ll get really cold. Your fireplaces-they’d disgrace a theater set. Flimsy, far too small. Not proper heating. And yet it snows almost every year.”

“And every year,” Yashim said, smiling, “you say the same thing.”

“If you go on saying and believing the same things for long enough, the world will eventually come around.” Palewski descended into the neighboring armchair and set his glass on his knee. “On the other hand, I have some curious news.”

Yashim picked up the glass Palewski had set beside him. “News?”

“What I hear-” Palewski paused. “I hear that the admiral Fevzi Pasha has disappeared.”

The valide watched the leaves settle in the court. Now and then a halberdier, head lowered and tresses fanning out across his cheeks, entered the valide’s apartment to tend the fire. It burned on a hearth beneath a high canopy that curved like folds of heavy linen; it emitted little heat. Sometimes the valide watched the soldier crossing the court, his steps heavy and cautious.

“Why doesn’t someone come to sweep the leaves away?” she murmured. “That is how it always was, before.”

Tulin bowed her head over her embroidery and sighed. “You are right, my valide. Of course they should sweep. Shall I send to the guardroom?”

The valide was silent for a long time, as if she were thinking of something else. But when she spoke it was to say: “No, there’s no need, I suppose. They are letting it all wind down. And soon we shall be gone, too.”

Tulin glanced up. “Hanum?”

“I told you, dear. The Kislar aga thinks I am needed at Besiktas.”

Tulin nodded vaguely. The valide had not, in fact, told her anything; but Hyacinth had.

“The girls are getting rather out of hand. The Kislar aga is a pantaloon.”

“And you are the valide still, hanum,” Tulin said simply.

The valide smiled. “Quite right. I don’t really wish to go, but all these dreadful old women… And the change would suit you, too.” She shivered. “Do you read French?”

“I regret not, valide.”

“No, no, of course you don’t. I’ve asked you that before. You’re a good girl, but I think you were not well brought up.”

Tulin’s needle paused over a stitch. “I’m afraid you must be right, valide. I can only make chocolate.”

“Astonishing.” The valide folded her cold fingers together, businesslike. “ That you didn’t learn in Circassia.”

Tulin shook her head gently, and smiled. “I think it-it just came to me, valide.”

The valide gave a little grunt. “I’d like a glass of water.” She closed her eyes.

Tulin looked up. The cold made her mistress tired. She laid her sewing aside and quietly rearranged the pelisse. On her narrow feet the valide was wearing woolen boots.

Tulin gingerly poked the fire, so that a flame shot up. Then she opened a little tin and took out a pinch of incense, and tossed it over the logs.

Yashim’s palinka splashed in the glass.

“Fevzi Pasha has disappeared? How do you know?”

Palewski frowned. “I’m not entirely without resources, Yashim,” he said, stiffly. “Even I have my networks.”

“I only meant-” He faltered. “What does it mean, he’s disappeared?”

His friend hunched forward in his chair, wrapping his hands around his glass. “I’m not absolutely sure, Yashim. According to the monsignor, the Kapudan pasha was supposed to tour the islands. They never saw him, or the fleet.”

Yashim relaxed back into his armchair. “That’s not such a surprise. We were all supposed to think he’d taken the fleet to the islands, but in reality he was under secret orders to go south.”

“You know that?”

“I’m not entirely without resources. I have my networks.” He smiled. “Husrev Pasha told me as much.”

“Did he say, Yashim, that the fleet is in port, at Alexandria?”

“ Off Alexandria,” Yashim corrected him. “It’s a show of force.”

“That’s not how it was described to me this morning.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“Who does? Your Kapudan pasha, Yashim, seems to have handed the Ottoman navy over to the Egyptians.”

“I don’t believe it.”

Palewski shrugged. “As you like. You may be right. Even Jesuits are fallible, after all.”

But Palewski’s Jesuits, however fallible, proved right about Fevzi Pasha.

At nightfall an Ottoman cutter swept in beneath Seraglio Point to deliver a trembling lieutenant at the gates of the grand vizier’s offices.

“I have urgent intelligence for the grand vizier!” he cried. “I have news of the fleet!”

The old vizier listened impassively as the lieutenant outlined the series of events, but his face grew pale.

“He took the fleet into port?”

“Yes, my pasha. We were out on patrol, so we received no orders. He sailed into Alexandria, and there was nothing. No firing.”

Husrev Pasha wiped a hand across his face. “Your actions will not be forgotten, young man. You have a report in writing?”

The lieutenant produced his report, and Husrev laid it on the pile beside him.

“Tell me, lieutenant, how many men have you aboard your ship?”

“Fifteen, my pasha.”

“Good men? Loyal?”

“They strained every nerve to reach Istanbul. Unswerving, my pasha, in their devotion to the sultan’s service.”

“Your words gladden my heart. They know, then, what you have just told me?”

The lieutenant bowed. “They witnessed it. They were as stupefied as I was.”

“Of course.” Husrev’s fingers moved out for the bell. Reluctantly.

“Shall I bring the ship in now, my pasha?”

The pasha nodded thoughtfully. “Your cutter has not docked?”

“I’ve held her in the channel, awaiting your orders.”

Husrev’s fingers relaxed. “Rejoin your men. Isn’t there some flag to run up the mast when you have pestilence aboard?”

“Pestilence, my pasha?”

Husrev waved a hand. “Typhoid. The plague. A yellow flag? I’ve seen it.”

“The yellow flag is used for ships in quarantine, my pasha.”

“That’s it. Take your cutter, anchor in the Marmara roads, and fly that flag. Don’t let a soul on or off your ship. I’ll see that you get supplied. And rewarded, too.”

Light broke on the young lieutenant’s face. “We are loyal men.”

“Your loyalty is not questioned. Do exactly what I have said.”

When the young lieutenant-what was his name? — had gone, the grand vizier sat for a few minutes rubbing his eyes and pondering the news he had just heard.