Barry Unsworth - Pascali's Island

Still holding the bag in his left hand, Mister Bowles moved towards the door, keeping them both within his sight. I rose with alacrity and followed. He was at the door when Izzet spoke.

'We will buy it back,' Izzet said. 'We will buy back the lease from you.'

'They say they will buy it.' I translated quite mechanically -past all astonishment now.

'Buy it?' Mister Bowles paused, as if this was quite a new idea. 'I dare say they want to see their names associated with the exhibits when they appear in the new museum at Gulhane,' he said. 'Well, it's natural, I suppose.'

I translated this.

'Yes, yes,' Izzet said eagerly. 'That is the reason.'

'Well, now,' Mister Bowles said. 'This puts a new slant on things, you know. Naturally, in view of the inconvenience, the disruption to my research and so on, I should have to ask rather more than I gave. I think seven hundred liras would be a fair figure.'

Seven hundred liras, Excellency. That is a good sum of money, even in these days. It is considerably more than my yearly income. I saw Izzet's eyelids fluttering.

'They have till noon tomorrow,' Mister Bowles said. 'I will wait at my hotel.'

We left them sitting there. No move was made to hinder our departure, no sound came after us. In the fiacre, on the way back, neither of us said much. Once or twice, at the beginning, Mister Bowles breathed deeply and audibly, the only sign of tension that he showed. Once I saw a smile on his face. I myself was silent. Vistas were opening before me, a way at last of breaking out. I was content to wait, plan my tactics. I have him in the hollow of my hand, Excellency.

I have slept, woken, slept again – both sleep and waking filled with the wondrous events of yesterday. Early still – the dawn prayer has just sounded. Hot already, and absolutely still. The imbat which has been troubling us lately has dropped. Striations of light across the sea, paling with distance, continuing into the long motionless plumes of cloud on the horizon. The verge so ethereal that cloud above seems denser, like further masses of land. Then the true land, the shapes of islands, glimpsed beyond. Layer upon layer, zone upon zone. Most beautiful and bewildering – liquid and solid, reality and illusion, form and light all confounded.

Through these soft distances, as it were through the hems of light, I hear the cries of sheep. The slaughter has begun. Today is the tenth day of Zilhijje. Throughout your possessions, Excellency, wherever the green flag of the Prophet is flown, they will be sharpening their knives. Thousands upon thousands of beasts bleeding their lives into the earth, their heads held towards Mecca. Killed soberly, in the Turkish fashion.

Today too – and now I am making Your Excellency privy to my criminal projects – today I intend to extort money from Mister Bowles. Did I not say at the outset that I would hide nothing from you? I must have money, my life is impossible here. I must get to Constantinople, make full enquiry into the neglect of my reports…

When I saw him lay the head on the desk, after the first shock at his perfidy, my real, my overwhelming feeling was one of identity with him. No, more intimate than that, an effect of fusion. I remember again Herr Gesing's hands locked together.

Eng verbunden. Artist and trickster. I know he despises me, has done so from the very start. But it is the me in him that he despises. Adepts both at the partial lie, blends of reality and illusion. Now I understand better my distress when I saw him sporting with Lydia. Mister Bowles produced a real head in an imaginary setting. What more can art do?

Think of the beauty of the idea, Excellency. Everything he has done, everything he has said, has been essential to his effect. No gesture has been superfluous. No doubt afar off he got wind of things here, a whiff of the pickings, so to speak. He must have arrived with the project already formed in his mind-with some room for improvisation, of course. Never was there wolf in better tailored sheep's clothing. Touch by touch he created himself for us, allowed us to create him, an image of forthright-ness and simple decency. The disapproval with which he greeted my chatter about my poor mother; the crashing rectitude of the sentiments he expressed to Herr Gesing about morality in politics; his ethical approach to painting: – all part of his design.

Seeing so quickly the use he could make of me was perhaps the most brilliant part of his whole campaign. He had recognised my corruption at once-seen himself in me, Excellency, though despising it. It was a faiblesse that made me the perfect agent for dealing with people like Izzet and Mahmoud Pasha. Subtle enough, crooked enough, to convince men so dishonest of his total honesty.

And they, what can they do? Publicity of any kind would be the death of their hopes. They dare not leave him long on the site. They can neither act against him, nor wait. All they can do is pay.

Excellency, since I wrote those last words, not more than three hours ago, I have got on to a new footing with Mister Bowles, our relationship has changed greatly. I am now, up to a point, his partner in this enterprise. One hundred and fifty liras is promised me, more money than I have ever had in my possession. I shall save my skin, get off the island. Not only that. The money will be sufficient for me to stay in Constantinople, find out – at last – what has been happening to my reports. It is many years since I felt such joy, Excellency, such pure joy.

Izzet came punctually to the hotel. We sat amid the potted palms, beneath the scenes of Jove's loves, in the otherwise deserted lounge. The abundant charms of the nymphs above his head made Izzet, in fez and alpaca jacket, seem even more shrunken and diminutive than usual. After the usual polite preliminaries Izzet offered to buy back the lease for double what Mister Bowles had paid – or not paid, rather, since in fact he has paid nothing so far but the ten liras deposit.

Mister Bowles rejected this offer very firmly. 'That just isn't good enough,' he said. 'They really cannot expect me to -' His blue eyes full of expostulation, a note of strong indignation in his voice. 'My research,' he said. 'The whole progress of my book has been held up. And then, you know, there is the disappointment… I mean, I should have liked my name to be associated with these finds. They could affect our knowledge of the whole period.'

Had I not known the truth I would have sworn he was in earnest. There was a blaze of true feeling, true injury in his tone, in his whole manner. Obviously he is a perfectionist, a true artist, allowing no vulgar admixture of triumph or cynicism, even in these crowning moments. Or, the disturbing suspicion came to me as I watched his face, could he be serious?. Did he in some way believe what he was saying?

'No, my dear chap,' he said. 'I must have seven hundred liras, at least.'

I was reassured, though not completely, by the exorbitance of his demand. As for Izzet, his eyelids fluttered with agitation. He stood up, as if to go. 'How can I return with such an offer?' he said. 'It is out of the question.'

'Well,' Mister Bowles told him, 'that is my figure. And by the way,' he added, as Izzet still hesitated, 'I have been up there this morning and I see you have stationed two soldiers on the site.'

Izzet at once denied that he knew anything about this.

'Be that as it may,' Mister Bowles said. 'It is hardly a mark of trust, is it? There was nothing in our agreement about a military presence.'

Izzet sat down again. He is highly strung and was quite distinctly trembling by this time. He looked like a vulture under powerful stress. 'Tell him,' he said to me, 'that the Vali has authorised me to offer six hundred liras, but fifty liras must be deducted, because that is the proportion of the lease. That is the final offer.'