“Of course,” D’Erlon said.
Having filled ten of the bags, the helpers jammed them into a robust wooden box little bigger than a cigar box and nailed the lid on top. The hammering echoed like the day of doom in that space, and Corinna winced. D’Erlon was immediately solicitous, suggesting she go back upstairs.
“But if I’m to sign as a witness . . .” she objected.
D’Erlon glanced at Dahlmann, who was obviously going to stay put, and who said: “It is not important to me. I did not suggest witnesses.”
“I’ll take Mrs Finn upstairs,” Ranklin volunteered, and a spare employee was detailed to show them the way.
* * *
Just wandering and looking was one thing, but when you wanted to buy something it all changed: now you were a victim. The coat O’Gilroy was trying on was, unquestionably, a winter coat: leather, and with a fur lining. But it also had embroidery on it that made him feel like a pantomime bandit. Still, it was warm and more-or-less fitted, so he tried asking the price.
If O’Gilroy understood the man, he was talking about the Turkish loan, not the price of a coat. He took it off and frowned at it while wondering what to do next. Damn it, he needed a coat.
“May I be of assistance?” He was a middle-aged man, not too thin, with a roundish face and sleepy-cat eyes. French, from the accent.
“That’s kindness itself, sir. I was having a bit of trouble understanding the price.”
“Ah, here there is no price.” The man began to examine the coat critically. “There is just bargaining. Hm.” He pulled at a pocket, tore the stitching, and instead of apologising, frowned accusingly at the stallkeeper. There was a quick exchange of Turkish and the coat was tossed aside.
“You want a coat for cold and wet weather? Then it is best to do as the animals themselves do. They wear, you may have noticed, the fur or fleece on the outside. Odd, but perhaps they have reason.” He took what looked like a bundle of uncleaned sheep-shearings from the seller. “Like this.”
He helped O’Gilroy into it. “It may seem a little . . . primitive, but to clean it will make it to leak. Sheep do not wash, I understand.” He sniffed. “There may, I should warn you, be a slight danger of rape: possibly you smell most enchanting to other sheep. However . . .” He walked around O’Gilroy, looking critically. “It is comfortable?”
It was certainly warm right down to the knees, and when O’Gilroy found the pockets they were deep and seemed well-stitched. It was definitely not as worn in Park Lane, but he wasn’t heading there. “Seems jest fine. Er – how much would it be costing?”
This launched a long, but essentially polite, episode of negotiation, reminiscence, an exchange of cigarettes, an offer of tea – delicately refused – and at last an apparent swearing of eternal fealty before the Frenchman said: “Nine francs. I am sorry I did not have time to get it cheaper, but . . .” So O’Gilroy handed over the equivalent of seven shillings and sixpence.
By now he had a good idea who the Frenchman was, and that he knew who O’Gilroy was – was pretending to be, that is. So he said: “Would ye be asking if he’d give me a receipt?”
“A receipt?”
“Ye see, me master give me the money for the coat and he’ll be wanting the proof of it.”
“Ah, of course.”
“And, er . . . mebbe if the receipt said twelve francs? Or fifteen, say? – he’d never be knowing.”
One touch of dishonesty not only makes the whole world kin, it may make half of it think it has a hold on the other half.
* * *
“Gold,” Corinna said as they reached a daylit floor, “has its uses, but it doesn’t make people polite.”
“Very philosophical. Are you taking the yacht south?”
“Probably. When are you going?”
“It looks like this afternoon.”
“By train?”
“I imagine so. It all being for the Railway.” They could, he supposed, catch one of the coastal steamers that linked Turkey’s ports, but it seemed unlikely.
“So Lady Kelso will be on the opposite side of the mountains: you’ll be coming from the north and me on the south. Hm.”
When she said no more, he asked a stray employee where he could change some sovereigns and was taken up to the long marble counter. The Bank might be French, but after fifty years in Constantinople it was now thoroughly bureaucratised, so this involved several flights of higher mathematics, half a dozen forms – and coffee.
Leaning on the counter, Ranklin observed: “I expected Beirut Bertie to be here.”
“Me too, but Edouard said he’d got a cable calling him back to Beirut. He’s leaving later today.”
It seemed odd to haul Bertie away from Constantinople and the loan negotiations at this stage – but Ranklin was keeping an open mind about M’sieu Lacan.
So instead, he said: “Everything lovesy-dovesy with Edouard again this morning?”
“What a revolting phrase. And mind your own damn business.”
“Ah, the effects of gold again.”
* * *
“What a strange coincidence!” Bertie said, shaking his head in amazement. “Still, everyone comes to Great Bazaar. . . Do you know, I met your master only last night, at the British Embassy? He seemed charming. But then,” because he wanted to give O’Gilroy room to differ, “I am not his servant.”
“Ah, sure he’s pleasant enough. Jest stupid, is all.”
“I am sure you exaggerate . . . Has he been in the Diplomatic long?”
“Not him. Doesn’t seem to stick at anything, what I hear. But he’s got money, and land in the Ould Counthry, so . . .” O’Gilroy shrugged at the way life was. He was giving, metaphorically, an imitation of a freshly ploughed field, waiting for whatever Bertie wanted to plant.
They were sitting in one of the many small coffee-houses that were mixed in with the Bazaar’s stalls – the source, O’Gilroy realised, of all those boys hurrying about with trays of coffee and tea. Such boys provided the only sign of hurry; most of the customers were taking their time, some playing backgammon, others sharing a hubble-bubble pipe, each sucking at his ornate mouthpiece with a contemplative look.
Bertie saw where O’Gilroy was looking and smiled lazily. “Hashish, probably. There are many ways of passing time, one’s life, one’s troubles . . . I still prefer more European vices.” He took a large silver flask from his pocket and filled his half-empty coffee cup, then proffered it. “I beg pardon – would you care to improve yours also? Here I cannot find proper cognac, but this is a passable imitation . . .”
It had a strong brandy smell although it didn’t taste much like it. But anything was better than Turkish coffee.
Bertie sat back and lit another cigarette. “Do you take much interest in diplomatic affairs yourself, Mr Gorman?”
O’Gilroy shrugged. “Ye hear a lot of talk . . . Seems pretty much mixed up, most’f the time.”
“True, true, the world is very confused. But at least now Britain and France are allies . . . You must be a patriotic man yourself.”
“Been a soldier of the Queen,” O’Gilroy offered. “And the King, too. Last one, that is.”
Bertie nodded and seemed uncertain about how to go on. Meanwhile he called for more coffee. Then he said: “Do you think your master can have much influence with the Ambassador here?”
Surprised, O’Gilroy blinked. “I . . . I wouldn’t be thinking so.”
Two more cups of coffee arrived and Bertie drank half his in a gulp. “Quick, while the waiter does not see . . .” He topped up their cups from his flask again. “I think your Ambassador here is a most charming man. Charming. But perhaps too much of the right family, the right school, and the world today . . .” He leant forward confidentially. “I tell you, Mr Gorman, I am concerned about the German influence here, in Turkey. Britain has so great an Empire to think about, sometimes perhaps . . .”