Jason Goodwin: An Evil eye

Yashim found Palewski fast asleep, with Pan Tadeusz across his face.

“I can’t believe it, Yash,” Palewski said at last. “You seem to have prevented a sectarian riot, identified a corpse, and thrown suspicion on the Russians, all while I was drinking my pear syrup. Incredible.”

Yashim unwrapped his handkerchief. “Do you know what this is?”

Palewski raised his eyes to Yashim’s. “No. But after all that, you’re going to tell me that it is a piece of human skin.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Oh, Christ,” Palewski said. He sagged back against the cushion. “I’m sorry, Yashim. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

“It was taken from the man’s underarm. It shows something, I’m not sure what. A scar, maybe.”

Palewski was silent for a while. “Or a brand.”

“A brand?”

“A jail brand. Either that, or Russian army-which comes to much the same thing. Regimental badge, so to speak. Germans go for facial scars. Your Janissaries-they carried tattoos, didn’t they? The Russians can be pretty crude, as I think I’ve mentioned.”

“Under the arm?”

“Why not? The right people will always know where to look.”

“The monk cut it out, Palewski. Either because he wanted the body to remain unidentified, or-”

“Or the opposite. I don’t suppose he put it in his water jug to improve the taste.”

“He meant to preserve it.” Yashim frowned. “I should go back to Istanbul. Perhaps I can identify the mark.”

They sauntered down the avenue of limes and arrived at the quayside just in time to see the Istanbul ferry pull out.

Yashim kicked the ground.

“A couple of hours won’t make any difference,” Palewski said equably. “Let’s take a stroll and look for something to eat.”

They wandered off along the track that lined the shore, overhung with Judas trees. Small fishing boats with painted eyes were drawn up on the beach, watching them as they passed. On the rocks, fishermen sat mending their nets or cleaning the day’s catch.

Yashim sniffed the air.

“That smells good, my friends!”

A group of fishermen were sitting around a fire and dipping bread into a cauldron. “You are very welcome, kyrie. Join us. Take some bread, and have a little wine.”

An older man, with a fine crop of white curls, grinned and winked at Palewski. “For the Frankish kyrie, the wine is good.”

Yashim squatted gravely by the fire. Palewski settled like a cormorant on a rock. A boy was sent to the sea with a couple of tin plates. He presented them, clean and fresh, to the newcomers. The old fisherman ladled out some stew, and someone passed them a loaf of round bread, from which they broke pieces.

Palewski held his thimble of yellow wine to the light. “To your hospitality.” He drank; the men murmured their approval; his glass appeared refreshed.

Yashim was curious to taste the fishermen’s stew. He took several mouthfuls: it was strong, flavored with the wild thyme that grew farther up the shore, beyond the track.

“Tomato!” he exclaimed.

One of the younger men nodded. “I’ve seen them growing it, kyrie. It grows like a weed, when you know how, and it tastes good. Even raw.”

The old fisherman put up a stubby finger. “Raw, it’s no good.” He passed his hand across his belly. “It lies here, very cold. And gives my wife headache.”

“She always has headache.”

“Not like this.”

“What do you think, kyrie?”

“I think tomato is good to eat.” Yashim picked out a little mass of bones with his fingers, and cast them toward the sea. “But like an eggplant, it is dangerous raw.”

The old man nodded. Palewski said, in his workmanlike Greek, “I have read that it is safe to eat it raw, but you should not eat the… the little seeds.”

“The pips, that’s right. That’s where the trouble lies.”

The younger man shrugged amiably. “I eat it, pips and all.” He touched the knuckle of his thumb to his belly. “I feel good.”

“Why not? You’re young.”

Yashim smiled and buried his head in his plate. Greeks always had some opinion, and they adored novelty. Their conversation never flagged.

“You grow the tomatoes yourself?”

The young man laughed. “It is better to have friends, kyrie. My cousin works in the pasha’s konak, his mansion on the island. As a gardener.”

The old man frowned. “Enough. You talk too much.”

“The pasha?”

The young man scratched his chest. “He’s gone away,” he said vaguely. “It’s not a crime, when he’s away.”

“Eh, time to mend.” The old man slapped his thighs. “Then a rest.”

“You’ll go out again later?” Palewski was curious.

“Best time for us, early evening. It’s the light,” the young man said.

“I don’t know about that,” another man countered. “My old man always swore by the tide.”

Later, as they walked back along the track to the quayside, Palewski gestured to the fishing boats.

“The Greeks were painting eyes on their ships in Homer’s time,” he said. “I’ve read somewhere that the practice is universal. Even in China. I wonder what we should make of that?”

Yashim did not reply.

“Splendid fellows, those sailors,” Palewski remarked. “The wine wasn’t bad at all. Ship a barrel to the residency, maybe.” He yawned. “Good stew. I think we have time to take coffee, and then home.”

But he was wrong: a ferry had already docked. They took seats along the port side, for the view returning to Istanbul. A sail went up and filled in the wind; the rope was cast off. Palewski went to find some coffee.

Yashim was watching idly for dolphins.

“May I?”

Yashim glanced around to see a tiny man in foreign dress bending toward Palewski’s seat. He wore a wide-brimmed flat black hat and carried a cane.

“I’m afraid it’s taken,” Yashim said.

“Everybody wants to drink coffee at the same time,” the little man remarked, hopping onto the seat. “I will sit just for a moment, until your friend comes back.”

He spoke with an accent Yashim could not quite place.

“You may think of me, Yashim efendi, as a ferry,” the stranger continued, swinging his short legs and staring imperturbably out to sea. “Like this one, I go back and forth, picking up and setting down. One friendly shore to the next, you see.” The little man held up his cane and rested his chin on it, like a child peering over a railing. “Today it will be picking up. I am sure of it. I take something quite useless from where it is, and drop it off where it can do some good.”

“And where would that be?”

The man’s expression changed. “Just like the ferry, everyone must buy a ticket. Then there are no questions asked.” He made a movement, quite slight: “Just give me what doesn’t belong to you.”

There was a gun in his right hand, intricate and tiny, like its owner. Its muzzle pointed at Yashim’s stomach.

Yashim threw out his left hand. When the gun wavered he scooped up the little man’s hand with his right, and held it pointing out to sea.

He felt the man’s fingers relax. Yashim slid the gun from his hand. It was not cocked. He wondered if it was even loaded.

“Will you give me the little bit of skin?”

“The next time you try to fire this gun,” Yashim said gently, peering into the chamber, “it will explode in your hand. The action is rusty and the bullet has rusted into the breach. But I suppose you do not mean to fire it.”

“Will you give me the little bit of skin?”

Yashim snapped the gun into place and handed it back. “No, I’m sorry. You see, I, too, have a destination for it in mind.” He glanced up. “Who are you working for?”