Jason Goodwin: An Evil eye

A few minutes later, Yashim and his old friend had exchanged the sea breeze for the equally welcome shade of the ancient limes that flanked the path up to the monastery of Hristos. The air smelled of charcoal and roasted meat where the kebab vendors had set up their braziers in the shade; the cool white walls of the island houses and their ocher pantiled roofs, peeped through the trees. Others shared their path: veiled women in long striped coats, a sailor in a shirt without a collar, a Greek priest in high canonicals, little boys on errands with bare feet, and a stout woman in a headscarf who rolled along after her donkey, its panniers stuffed with reeds.

Close to the gateway of the monastery, set back from the avenue, stood a small cafe.

“Sherbet, Yash. They’ll do a pear syrup here, too,” Palewski suggested, steering his friend gently by the arm toward the cafe path.

Two men swerved past them, running up the hill.

“So hot,” Palewski murmured, raising an eyebrow.

Cushions were scattered on carpets spread beneath the boughs of an enormous pine, whose resinous fragrance perfumed the air. A boy in a waistcoat took their orders: he seemed distracted, glancing now and then through the trees toward the avenue of limes.

“Pear, not apple,” Yashim corrected him. “Pear for my friend, and coffee, medium sweet, for me.”

The two friends lay in companionable silence, watching the sky through the boughs of the tree. Rooks cawed in the upper branches; farther off, Yashim could hear a murmur of indistinct voices like wind soughing in the pines.

Palewski dipped into his pocket. He brought out a slim volume bound in soft red leather, which he opened and began to read.

Yashim struggled for a few moments with the curiosity that comes over anyone when they watch someone else with their nose in a book. Then he gave up.

“ Pan Tadeusz — again,” Palewski replied, with a smile.

“The national epic,” Yashim murmured. “Of course.”

“Really, I never tire of it,” Palewski said. “It is the Poland I represent. Poland in the old days.” He sighed. “I wrote to Mickiewicz, proposing a French translation.”

“The poet? And did he reply?”

Palewski nodded. “Of course, he could do it himself. He lives in Paris. But he said he’d be delighted if I’d like to try.”

“And you’ve begun?”

“Awfully hard, Yashim.” Palewski leaned back and closed his eyes. He flung up a hand toward the trees and began to recite:

“Litwo! Ojczyzno moja! Ty jeste jak zdrowie.

Ile ci trzeba ceni, ten tylko si dowie,

Kto ci stracil. Dzi pi kno tw w calej ozdobie

Widz i opisuj, bo t skni po tobie.”

Yashim could not understand the words; he had stopped listening. He could hear a sound like angry bees, buzzing farther up the avenue; now and again he heard shouts.

“I’ve made a start, Yash, but it’s picking the words. And matching the rhyme-”

Yashim bent forward and touched his knee. “Don’t go away,” he said.

“But I haven’t given you my translation yet.”

Yashim had scrambled to his feet. “I’ll listen later.”

“Your coffee’s coming.”

“I’ll be back.”

He went to the avenue and turned up the hill. A few hundred yards ahead he could make out the wooden gate of the monastery. The gate was shut, and outside it a few dozen men were standing in a semicircle, their backs toward Yashim.

“Unbelievers!”

“Open the gate!”

A man stooped and picked up a stone, which he threw against the wooden gate. Soon the whole crowd was hurling stones, which thunked against the heavy wooden planks.

Yashim moved to the edge of the circle.

“What are you doing?”

The man beside him turned his head sharply. “The unbelievers, efendi. They have the body of a Muslim in there. They are hiding him.”

Yashim frowned. “How do you know that?”

“At night, they will feed him to the dogs!”

Yashim put up a hand. “How can you know so much? Have you talked to them, inside? Have you seen this Muslim?”

The man turned angrily. “Open this gate! We are Muslims!”

Yashim glanced back. More men were surging up the avenue; some were shaking their fists.

Ever since the Greeks of Athens had secured their independence, Greeks and Turks had been like flint and steel, striking sparks that threatened to set the empire alight. Husrev Pasha was right, these were uncertain times. The weather was too hot-and a man was dead.

Yashim put his hands in the air and stepped out in front of the gathering crowd.

“Listen to me.”

The men paused, curious.

“Listen to me. I am from the palace.”

A bareheaded man stepped forward. “The unbelievers! They treat the Muslims like dogs!”

Yashim laid a hand on the man’s shoulder, and invited him to sit down. He opened his arm, gesturing along the line. “All of you, please. Sit down.”

The men began to form knots. After all the noise, the quiet voice of the stranger seemed almost hypnotic. Some squatted, and one or two of them actually sat, crossing their legs.

“We will find out what is going on here,” Yashim continued. The name came to him at that moment. “Where is Mullah Dede?”

The men looked around. Mullah Dede was not there.

“Fetch the mullah. Go.”

“Who are you?” It was a fat man in an open shirt. He had his hands on his hips and he was glancing right and left. “Who are you, from the palace?”

“I am Yashim.” He spoke quietly, but loud enough for the men to hear. A wary look appeared on the fat man’s face. “And your name?”

“I am… Hasan.”

Men are driven by fear: and they fear only what they do not know.

“Will anyone else give me their name?”

Men looked away, feeling the ground with their eyes.

Yashim could see the figure of the mullah climbing briskly up the avenue. “When Mullah Dede comes we will all sit quietly, while he and I discuss the matter.”

The mullah walked in slowly through the ring of men, looking from right to left. He saw Yashim, and salaamed.

“What is this gathering, my son? They say the monks have taken the body of a Muslim. Can this be true?”

“We will ask the monks,” Yashim replied.

“Yes, that is the best way.” Mullah Dede nodded slowly. “We will enter, and speak with the abbot.” He turned to the men squatting on the ground. “Go, all of you. Go in peace, and if we have need of you again, I will call.”

Yashim glanced at Hasan. He was swaying, as if uncertain what to do; eventually he turned away and began to go down the hill. Many joined him; a few, however, only moved farther off, and squatted under the trees, planning to see what happened next.

“And now,” said Mullah Dede, “we will knock on the door, and hope that we are answered, inshallah.”

“Inshallah,” Yashim echoed.

At the sultan’s palace at Besiktas, the lady Talfa was jingling an enormous bunch of iron keys threaded onto an iron loop.

“Some of you girls,” she announced, “will receive keys yourselves as you settle in to your duties. That will be a matter for the Kislar aga to arrange, with my help, naturally.”

They were on the ground floor of the palace, where the windows were shuttered on the inside with diamond-shaped lattices to prevent anyone from looking in.

The girls avoided one another’s eyes, anxious not to be thought overbold. Many of them hoped to receive a key and to be allotted an important task. They had already inspected the laundry, under the lady Talfa’s direction: there would be a laundry kalfa, maybe two. They had looked into rooms containing the coffee sets for the coffee kalfa to manage; a silver room, stacked with plates, trays, and ewers; a china room, whose china kalfa would preside over the proper storage and cleaning of the Chinese porcelain.