Jason Goodwin - An Evil eye

“And the little girl died.”

“An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.” Spyro straightened up. “It’s in the Bible, and it shouldn’t be.”

“The curse?”

Spyro nodded. “I saw him that night. Ran by me as we were coming in to help, bundle of something in his arms. He just looked at me, efendi. Cold as ice, it was, that look. I think-he knew. He sent us each a gold piece, efendi. I gave it back.”

“He was never extravagant.”

“That’s it,” the caiquejee said slowly. “Not an extravagant man, Fevzi Pasha. But I wouldn’t take a piece of gold for doing what I thought right, efendi. There, I’ll leave it to dry now.”

He picked up a cloth and took the pot of shellac off the heat.

“It haunts me, fire,” he said.

Yashim was a long time in replying. “I worked for him, all those years ago,” he said at last.

Spyro turned, and Yashim could see the sullen pouches in his face. “I thought you were interested in the boat. Forget we spoke, efendi.”

“I just wanted to talk.” Yashim wondered how to allay the man’s fears: it was like scraping mud from a boot. “I just wanted to know, that’s all.” He paused. “I don’t have to remember your name. I don’t need to know.”

He could see the caiquejee working his jaws. “I’m Spyro. As you remembered. I’m a caiquejee, same as he was once.”

He stared down at the hull of his boat. “That’s it,” he said. “I’m finished, now.”

Talfa was enjoying herself.

One of the old lady housekeepers had bowed very low and burst into tears.

“Come, come, Ayesha, dry your tears!” Talfa smiled kindly, and reached out to take the woman’s hand. “You must remember what a distinguished life you’ve had. What a boon you have been to us all, and to my brother, of course, especially. You should be thanking God, not crying for what is done.”

The former housekeeper nodded, and dabbed a handkerchief to her eyes. “You are right, my lady. Of course what you say is true, and I must try to be happy with what God has chosen for me. But-oh!”

She crushed the handkerchief to her lips.

Necla hung her head. She found it all too sad, and dull, and awkward. With each bleak encounter she sensed her mother’s spirits rise, as if the spectacle of the rejected women’s grief and abandonment sharpened her awareness of her own good fortune. The sadder they were, the happier her mother sounded.

“Necla, my dear, do try to sit straight. That’s better. Now, say hello to your auntie Pevenna.”

Necla remembered some of them, as they flitted forward with tears and brave smiles, bowed low, and pinched her cheeks.

“How well she looks!”

“Such a treasure, little Necla! I wonder, do you remember your auntie…?”

“You’ll be filling out soon, little one! You will make us all so proud…”

Her mother, gayer than ever, ordered noses to be blown, eyes to be wiped. The valide had been something of an ordeal; but here Talfa had brought life and warmth back into these women’s benighted lives.

Talfa’s quick little eyes darted everywhere.

“And who is that, Hyacinth? There, beside the divan-the girl with the mandolin?”

“The mandolin? That is Melda, my lady. She is staying with us for a short while.”

“Melda? Our Melda?”

“She belongs to the ladies’ orchestra, mama,” Necla said quietly.

“I am aware of that.” Talfa sniffed. “I’m afraid, Necla, it does not explain what she is doing here.”

Hyacinth bent forward. “Her nerves, my lady,” he fluted apologetically. “She needs rest.”

“Rest?” Talfa frowned. “Bring her to me.”

Hyacinth shimmered away, and a few moments later he returned with the girl, who held her mandolin by the neck and her eyes downcast. She bowed, touching the floor.

“I know you, don’t I? I set you to look after the little girl.”

“Yes, hanum efendi,” Melda replied in a small voice.

“Then what-?” Talfa drew herself up and swept her arm slowly around the room: “Then what are you doing here? This is not her place, Hyacinth. It is entirely irregular. If the girl is ill, she should be seen by a doctor, in Besiktas. That is where her duties lie, am I not right?”

“Quite right, hanum efendi,” Hyacinth began. “But the Kislar aga-”

Talfa waved him off. “Does the valide know this girl is here?”

“I’m not sure, hanum ef-”

“That’s enough. The girl can speak. She can tell me why she has come to Topkapi. Well?”

Melda’s eyes flickered uncertainly toward the elderly eunuch, then down to the floor again. Talfa’s expression tightened. Hyacinth wrung his hands, and his head bobbed low. “Hanum efendi, you will allow me to interject. Melda is only staying with us for a short while, until she regains her-her strength. She has had”-he fluttered his fingers in the air, looking for the permissible euphemism-“an inauspicious occurrence, a shock, exactly, so the Kislar aga and Yashim efendi had her sent to us, to recover.”

“Ah!” Talfa barked, as if she had got the truth at last. “Yashim!”

Hyacinth bowed again, and said nothing. He had served in the palace for a long time.

Talfa continued to study the downcast girl. At length her expression softened, and she almost smiled.

“Come, come, little one. I don’t bite, you know.” She tittered, and heaved herself off the divan. “Necla, my love, I want you to stay here a little longer, on my account.” She patted her daughter’s hand. “It’s Melda, isn’t it? Let’s go somewhere quiet, just you and me, and we’ll have a little talk. Let’s see what your auntie Talfa can do for you. Eh?”

She took Melda’s hand in hers.

“Come on, my dear. I know just the spot. I was born at Topkapi, after all.” She turned to Hyacinth, and scrunched up her plump face with amusement. “Don’t look so worried, Hyacinth. Melda and I can have a little chat, and you can look after Necla.”

Hyacinth smiled uncertainly, and bowed. It was a deep bow, because he felt that something was wrong, and when he straightened up, Talfa and the girl were gone.

Darkness was falling when Yashim arrived at the Polish residency. As he climbed the stairs he heard the sound of a violin, and when he entered the drawing room Palewski motioned him to an armchair with a swoop of the fiddle under his chin.

He sat for several minutes, eyes closed, pondering the story of Fevzi Ahmet’s youth, the sister’s death, the father’s curse. He only noticed that Palewski had finished playing when the ambassador flopped into the neighboring chair.

Yashim opened his eyes. “Why do you think Fevzi Ahmet chose to defect?”

“Bitterness and greed,” Palewski replied, as if the answer were obvious.

Yashim turned his head. “You think he took Egyptian gold?” He sounded curious.

“I imagine,” Palewski answered more slowly, “that he took Egypt’s gratitude. The gold, I am afraid, was Russian. It often is.”

“But why, if he was working for the Russians, did Fevzi Pasha kill the man in the well?”

Palewski shrugged.

Yashim said moodily, “Husrev Pasha thinks the same as you.”

“Well, I may say that the grand vizier is not a fool. Istanbul is vulnerable without a fleet-and the Russians are very close already.” Palewski sighed. “I’m afraid Fevzi Pasha’s defection makes it likely that they will come, as they might say, to protect the city.”

“The European Powers won’t like that much,” Yashim said.

“Perhaps not,” Palewski said, and Yashim could hear the doubt in his voice. “And they should have thought about that twelve years ago, when they helped the Greeks get independence. I hate to say it, Yash, but your empire hasn’t many friends.”