Stanley Elkin - George Mills

For their cruelty.

They’ve existed as a fighting force since the second half of the fourteenth century and were originally recruited from among young Balkan Christians, often made over to the Ottoman Empire by the parents themselves according to a policy known as devshirme, a human payment collected in lieu of taxes. These “tribute children,” as they were known, were dispersed among Muslim families, who instructed them in the ways of Islam. When the local mullahs were convinced they were ready, they were converted and formally sworn to repudiate their parents, a ceremony which involved a vow to take, if the state required it, the lives of everyone in their family, from a mother or father to a distant cousin. If they were considered fit enough for the rigorous life of a Janissary, they were sent to Constantinople and received into the Corps. This was not actually a formal induction. There was no formal induction; no loyalty oath was ever sworn to the Sultan or any representative of the Empire, only a pledge of celibacy. Then the recruit simply began his training. If he survived he was a Janissary. If he died, as many did, during the course of his preparations, his corpse was used to help train the others.

They were — we are — slaves.

Because the King knew his man, understood to his giblets and neckbones not just the proximate character and quality of each royal counterpart and political analogue throughout Europe and the Orient, but the taste and aroma of his very soul. Because he knew him as a cordon bleu chef knows vegetables, meat.

It wasn’t the length finally, it was the height. Slender pillars, high as trees, vaulting into heavy blocks of shrewd color faceted as gem which supported a great fanned ceiling like some Persian rug in stone. The height, the weight of the height.

Peterson presented his letters to the Grand Vizier’s secretary, who started to call for a translator. The courier shook his head vigorously. “No,” he said. “They’re in Turkic. In Turkic.”

The secretary looked up. “Eh?”

“In Turkic,” Peterson repeated, and made a great show of writing in the air. “Turkic.”

The man smiled and duplicated Peterson’s gesture. He held up the letters. “Turkic?”

Peterson nodded and I looked at His Majesty’s courier.

We were told to return to the embassy and wait for instructions.

As Christians are distrusted and are discouraged from having official, long-term connections with the Ottoman government, the British ambassador to the Court of Mahmud II is a Jew.

“I am Moses Magaziner,” the ambassador said, a shaggy-bearded, great hook-nosed old fellow with long curling earlocks and a shiny black skullcap that seemed cut from the same bolt of gabardine as his jacket and trousers. “Is His Majesty vell?”

“Quite well, thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” Peterson said.

“Oy, tenks God,” the ambassador said. “His veight, he’s vatching his veight?”

Peterson frowned. “No one can know for certain, sir, but his intimates estimate he’s above twenty-two stone by now.”

“Tventy-two stone. A good eater. He vas alvays a good eater.”

“Indeed,” Peterson said.

“Vell,” the ambassador said, rubbing his hands together, “you boys come a lung vay. You’re ready a little lunch?”

“I know I am, Mr. Ambassador,” I said.

“Dot’s nice,” Moses Magaziner said affably. He indicated Peterson. “Your mate, the langer locksh, the skinny merink, he’s also ready a nibble grub?”

“At your convenience, sir,” Peterson said.

The strange diplomat shrugged the large, fringed prayer shawl that fell like a scarf about his arms and shoulders and clapped his hands twice. “Mrs. Zemlick,” he told the maternal-looking woman who appeared in the doorway, “tell Gelfer lunch for three. The state dining room.” The woman smiled at us, nodded and left. “Very pleasant, very refined. A doll,” Magaziner said when she’d gone, “a regular baleboste. I vish only the best for Yetta Zemlick.” He sighed. “Listen,” he said, “a heppy steff is a busy steff.”

“She seems quite cheery,” I said.

His Highness’s representative shrugged. “A vidow. A vidow voman finf years. I vould like to arrange maybe a shiddech vit her and the tchef. Don’t be shy, hev a fig.” Magaziner held a bowl out to us. I accepted but Peterson declined. “You don’t like figs?” Magaziner said, “try a date. Sveet like sugar.”

“I’m afraid I should ruin my appetite,” Peterson said coolly and Magaziner looked as if he were surprised to discover that Peterson possessed one.

“He’s had a rough time with his stomach, Mr. Ambassador,” I said. “The voyage.”

“Oh yes,” he said, “the woyage.” Mrs. Zemlick reappeared in the doorway and waited till she caught the ambassador’s eye. “Lunch, Mrs. Zemlick?” He turned to us. “Vell gents,” he said, rising, “soup’s on.”

In the state dining room Moses Magaziner recited Hebrew prayers over each course that the servant, Eli Nudel, set before us. Peterson and I looked down at our laps.

“You don’t got an eppetite for brisket, Mr. Peterson? You hardly touched.”

Peterson mumbled something that was difficult to hear.

“He says he filled up on soup,” Eli Nudel said. “He says he’s all shtupt from cholleh. ”

“Eli,” Magaziner said, “bring me vat Mr. Peterson don’t finish, Gelfer Moonshine’s feelings shouldn’t be hurt.” Then he turned to us as he sopped up gravy with his bread. “Don’t feel bad, young man,” he told Peterson. “If you ken’t you ken’t. Oy, everybody’s a prima donna. I’m not referring to you, Mr. Peterson. I can tell, you are an angelface. It’s Gelfer Moonshine, my tchef. He’s a pick-of-the-litter, vorld-cless, A-number-vun tchef but he gets depressed if a person don’t eat up everyting on his plate. I tell him, ‘Gelfer, it’s not you. Sometimes ve got a guest his stomach ain’t accustomed to traditional cooking.’ I tell him, ‘Gelfer, cheer yourself, sometimes a fella’s hed a woyage didn’t agree mit him.’ ” Eli Nudel had been serving the coffee and was standing now beside Peterson, who seemed oblivious to the man.

Magaziner went on. “I tell him, ‘Gelfer, all right, maybe she’s too old to hev any more children, and all right, maybe she ain’t a beauty, but nobody could deny Yetta got a smile on her punim could light up the shabbes candles. And what about you, Gelfer Moonshine? You got it in your head you’re the Supreme Being’s gift to the ladies? You’re fifty-one years old, your bek aches, your feet get sore, you got a constipation could choke a horse. A nice person like Yetta could be a comfort to you. That time her son and son-in-law came to the embassy mit the grendbabies ven the mumsers ver making a pogrom, you saw for yourself. Like horses they ate, may the Lord, blessed be His name, make His countenance to shine upon them.’ Two tiny little girls, Mr. Mills, Mr. Peterson, couldn’t be seven years old, eight tops, and they ate for a regiment. Vat dey couldn’t finish Gelfer made up to shlep in a beg. You’ll take a cup coffee, Mr. Peterson?”

“What? Oh. Yes please. I don’t seem to see the — Would you have such a thing as cream?”

Moses Magaziner looked at him. “Dairy mit brisket, Peterson?” he asked sharply, then abruptly changed the subject. “Vell,” he said softly, “how’d it go at the pelace? Dey taking good care you boys?”

“We had a preliminary interview this morning with the Grand Vizier’s First Secretary. He told us to await further instructions.”

“Ah,” Moses Magaziner said, “further instructions. You speak the lingo, Mr. Peterson?”