Robert Butler - The Star of Istanbul

Then we had a dish before us, in silver timbales, that would lead Metcalf to speak more fully. We leaned toward it together, as had become our custom, and he said, “ Croûtons of bread crumbs fried in butter. Black truffles in a reduced demi-glace. And cocks’ kidneys. No hens. Only cocks. They’re hot, as you can feel on your face and in your nose. You eat a cock’s kidney when it is hot. Begin.”

I did.

And, as was his custom, he kept his eyes shut as he chewed. But this time, after he was finished chewing, he kept his eyes closed for a few moments more, saying, “You’ve done good work.”

“Eating cocks’ kidneys?”

“That too,” he said.

“What’s next?”

“It’s not where we expected you to end up.”

“At least the war’s arrived,” I said. “There’s Gallipoli.”

“There’s Gallipoli,” he said.

“How’s that going?”

Metcalf wagged his head. “The English bungled it. Caught the Turks unprepared at the Dardanelles, but when it was time to move from the sea assault to the land, the Brits couldn’t get their troops in for a month. They let the Germans and Turks wire the beaches, deploy their men, arm the forts, even build supply roads, for Christ’s sake. It’s going to be long and bloody out there.”

“So am I going?”

“You’re going.”

“As?”

“Well, that depends on how it unfolds.”

“I take it you’ve got a German whipped up for me as a possibility,” I said. “I don’t expect any more unfolding between now and tomorrow night.”

“Smith will bring you a packet after dinner,” Metcalf said. “We’re preparing you for a number of possibilities. Nice thing about having control of the German embassy. We’re a fine little document factory.”

“You understand about my shaving.”

“I do.”

“Sorry it limits us.”

“The gauze helps with that,” Metcalf said, studying my left cheek. I’d freshened the bandage. He said, “An American journalist is still more or less persona grata from here to Constantinople.”

I was tempted to pointedly correct Metcalf on the name of the city, in the way Squarebeard had corrected Metzger, but I let it pass.

And Metcalf continued: “You could stay bandaged as Christopher Cobb till you grew your beard back.”

“I could.”

“On the other hand, at least among the core group of Huns in this matter, Kit Cobb is known to be a dangerous man.”

“And the two principals tomorrow night both know me by sight.”

“Even with a Schmiss, ” Metcalf said, agreeing.

“Dangerous, huh?”

Metcalf lifted an eyebrow. Of course, he said, without saying it.

I said, “You understand. .”

He stopped me with a wave of his hand. “Of course I understand. I’m glad you have the knack.”

“Knack?” I wasn’t getting sanctimonious on him. It just struck me as an odd choice of a word.

“To effectively save your own life.”

“ That knack,” I said, letting go of the qualm.

“It’s gotten a workout the last few days,” he said.

“Which reminds me,” I said. “You got my pistol?”

“Smith.”

“And Wesson?”

“Ben Smith.”

“After dinner?” I said.

“After dinner,” he said. “A Mauser, by the way. A small but effective Mauser.”

“I’ve had them pointed at me.”

Metcalf nodded and he sipped at the wine that Escoffier’s sommelier had paired with the last few courses, an eight-year-old white from the Loire Valley. I was a pretty good drinker, but I was a bit overwhelmed with information already, getting it and seeking it, what with the task ahead of me and the things I didn’t know about that, and with what I was learning about this very odd but ravishingly assertive food, and so the subtleties of the wine were entering into and then instantly vanishing from my head. The wines were good. This one was white and dry. For the seasoned drinker in me, that was enough for this night.

And we did not resume our talk until a Samis de Faisan landed before me and I took it all in and kept it: a pheasant twice cooked but still pretty near to gamey raw, surrounded by a muddy-rich sauce based on what the folks in New Orleans would call roux , this roux happening to be an intense one, with the essence of salt belly of pork rolling around on my tongue in the company of the bird.

Metcalf opened his eyes after swimming for a while in those muddy, pheasant-strewn waters, and he tapped his lips with his napkin. Almost daintily. A good roux and pretty-close-to-nature bird meat properly required a stronger gesture, a more assertive mouth wipe than that, it seemed to me. But that was a nuance of this kind of dining that maybe the swells hadn’t considered.

I wasn’t one to criticize or advise a gourmet in his own realm, however, so I simply waited for Metcalf to be satisfied with the state of his lips, and then I said, “The guy I’m calling ‘Squarebeard.’ Ring any bells?”

Metcalf straightened and widened his eyes, as if he was coming out of a reverie. He looked at me and focused. “You never saw him close up?”

“No.”

“That was a good medium-range description, though.”

“He could be any number of people, you’re saying.”

“No one who rings a bell.”

I reached for the glass of white.

Metcalf said, “This thing you smelled in your room.”

“Spirit gum.”

“Yes. Actors use it for what ?”

Of course. Beards.

I didn’t answer but we looked at each other for a moment.

“He was around the hotel that morning,” I said, following what I took to be Metcalf’s train of thought. Squarebeard could have been the guy who was in my room.

“It’s possible,” he said.

“That we don’t know what this guy looks like,” I said, finishing his thought.

“Possible,” he said.

“You boys tracking any German agents who like to make up?”

“This has only recently occurred to me,” Metcalf said. “We’ll put our heads together and see who comes to mind.”

“But if Squarebeard does do disguises,” I said, “and if he’s good at it, it’s to make sure he never comes to mind in a situation like this.”

“You’ll soon be fifteen hundred miles away. We’ll try to figure him out while you’re gone.”

“Did you figure out the guy I take to be Bourgani’s father?”

“You sure you got the room right?”

“It’s position in relation to the street. Yes. Absolutely.”

“It was empty,” Metcalf said. “Seemingly uninhabited. Clean as a whistle. Which, in that tenement, in that part of town, is suspicious in and of itself.”

“The flag behind the bar?”

“We’re working on it. It’s not a country we can identify.”

“There are countries out there our State Department doesn’t know about?”

Metcalf shot me what appeared to be that pleasant-but-stupid-child smile again. “Okay,” he said. “We know it’s not a country. Not a current one.”

“Hey,” I said. “It’s a big world. You guy’s could’ve missed one.”

Metcalf chuckled. An indulge-a-pleasant-but-stupid-child chuckle. He’d gotten touchy all of a sudden. He said, “Have you asked yourself how Metzger knew you on sight? Even with you portraying an expatriate German?”

“I’ve asked.”

“And?”

“Brauer.”

“Well, did you give him some cause to be suspicious that didn’t show up in your report?”

“No.”

“So let’s say he mentions your casual shipboard encounter to the boys at the shop. That wouldn’t be enough for them to go straight to strong-arming you.”

I didn’t say a thing.