She started. She opened her eyes and was surprised to see a dumpy woman sitting beside her, puffing on an amber stem held between her teeth.
“Who have we here?” she said; but perhaps she only imagined she had spoken, because the dumpy woman kept puffing away and darting her eyes about the room.
“Aimee! Aimee!” She could hear them calling for her, a long way off, but she didn’t care. They would make her sit in a close, stuffy room to do needlepoint with Tante Merib. It was nicer in the soft grass, once she’d kicked off those little shoes with wooden soles. She pulled off her calico trousers and chucked them into a bush, and then her bonnet, and her ribbons.
She felt the sun hot on her face and on the top of her head.
She stepped into the brown water with her hands raised.
“Aimee! Reponds-moi! Ou est-tu? Aimee?” A little closer now. The water was as warm as it looked and the mud was squishy between her toes. All the little blacks played here, and Aimee knew why.
The fastenings on her bodice were the hardest to undo. She was only six, after all. She wriggled and pulled, but the dress caught under her arms and then, as she tottered forward in the water, it puffed up around her and she went off sailing… Sailing like a little boat!
A big black man had jumped in to get her out when she was already half sunk, and the family had arrived at the bank of the waterhole. They’d followed her trail, they said.
After, Papa used to call her his petit paquebot. She smiled. She’d forgotten that.
Talfa cleared her throat, and stood up.
“Say goodbye nicely, Necla.”
They performed temmena politely, and withdrew backward.
Talfa was, in her way, a grand personage; but the valide outranked her.
“Come, Necla. Hyacinth can take us to visit the other ladies now.”
90
The road dipped behind a row of sheds that ran down to the water’s edge. They were roughly planked, beneath a patchwork of tiled and shingled roofs, and from one of them a crooked pipe leaked a haze of smoke. Yashim could smell the resin in the clear air.
In a low, open-fronted boathouse, a man was working on his boat. Now and then he set down his tools and wrapped his icy fingers around a ball of dirty wool, to get them warm enough for the delicate reshellacking of the hull.
He noticed Yashim out of the corner of his eye and straightened up.
“Something smells good,” Yashim said, smiling.
The workman glanced at him, and then at the pot bubbling on the brazier.
“My own recipe, efendi. Fish. Turps. The fish is mostly bones.”
“It must have been the turpentine.” Yashim peered further around the door, hovering.
“Are you looking for someone, efendi? Please, step inside.”
Yashim had often passed these boatyards. He noticed the broom, and the dangling blue glass eyes on a peg, and the pots of brushes standing on the bench. He always liked a workshop, each ranged with tools common and special, the battered, dripped-on workbench, the perpetual fire of a brazier, the tamped-down earth floor tidy in the morning, and by nightfall cluttered with debris.
“You’re repainting her?”
“I need to do it well, efendi, the paint and the lacquer. People think a boat is just wood, but that’s really only the beginning, you see? It’s what you do next that decides how she rides, how she looks-and how long she lasts, of course.”
Yashim cast a critical eye along the black, tapered hull of the caique.
“That’s not just ordinary pine, efendi.” The boatman gestured with his brush, unable to conceal the pride in his voice. “It’s slow-grown, Black Sea. And a cedar keel, same as the sultan’s own caique, if you’ll forgive me for saying so. That’s one of the reasons she’s lasted so well.”
“You must have an in with the builder,” Yashim remarked.
The man cocked his head. “I do, efendi. I do. I married his daughter.”
“And how old is she? I mean, the caique.”
They both laughed.
“Same age as my marriage, by God! Twenty-five years I’ve had them both.”
Yashim uttered a bismallah, in polite and indirect acknowledgment of the caiquejee’s good fortune.
“Please,” he added. “I’m interrupting your work.”
The caiquejee shrugged, and bent over the hull of his boat to lay off the brush. Without looking up he said:
“I know you, efendi. Forgive me, I don’t remember where-but I recognized your face.”
Another man might have been pleased, flattered even; but Yashim frowned. Perhaps it was only the man’s talk. Or perhaps as he slid into middle age, his face and bearing were settling into shape: they had become impressionant. Memorable.
“Forgive me, efendi. It’s just a hobby of mine, faces. I see ’em all the time, rowing people around. Sad or bad or having fun. Greek or Turk. Might as well take an interest. And I remember yours.”
Yashim nodded. “I understand. You’re Spyro, aren’t you? We met the day they took down the old plane tree.”
The caiquejee gave him an odd look. “Spyro.” He jabbed his thumb to his chest, then scrunched up his face and sought inspiration in the roof. “And I took you to the Balat stage.”
“The bridge has come on since then,” Yashim said.
Spyro leaned aside, and spat. “They’ll get their bridge, now.” He paused, ruminatively. “I miss the tree. Like an old face, it was.” He dipped his brush into the pot and wiped the drips carefully off around the rim. “But I’ll tell you something, efendi, about the bridge. People think we’re sorry, but it won’t be the ruin of us caiquejees, and you know why? A caiquejee built it.” He laid off the brush against the lacquered hull. “God’s truth.”
“A caiquejee?”
“The Kapudan pasha to you and me. Begging your pardon, efendi.”
“Fevzi Ahmet Pasha?”
Spyro bent his head and lifted the brush, leaning back to survey his work. “His father worked the boats. Little man. Kept the color in his hair right up to the day he died.”
“He took a wife on the Danube,” Yashim added.
“That’s right, he did.” He looked up. “You are better at this than me, efendi.”
“Go on.” It was like a melody heard across the water, fugitive and incomplete. Yashim had heard it before, but he wanted to hear it again.
“A girl from the Danube,” Spyro said. “Fevzi was her boy. Fevzi as he was, efendi.”
“That’s all right.”
“Nice-looking lad. Popular on the boats.” He paused. “After what happened, I suppose that’s what kept him together. His old father wouldn’t let him work, so he found a job with some army man. New Troop.”
Yashim almost missed it. “After-what? What happened?”
Spyro glanced apologetically at the brush in his hand. “Forgive me, efendi. I like to work fast-you need to lay off the paint quickly, or it dries and streaks the finish. It’s the only time I’m anxious in a year, when she’s out of the water, like this.”
“Please, go ahead.”
Spyro dipped the brush and added another streak to the strippeddown hull. Yashim could just see the top of his head. “There were two of them, efendi,” he muttered. “Fevzi, and the little girl. Gul, her name was. Fevzi’s little sister. Oh, she was a bright one! She and her dad, she’d make him laugh. Ride about in his caique and pretend she was the valide sultan, do this, do that. Fevzi was popular but Gul stole the whole village, believe me. Two long plaits down her back, and her only ten or so when… when…”
The top of his head disappeared.
“Ach, what a shame. Still chokes me up, efendi, after all those years. She doted on her dad, and on her big brother, too. That’s what did it. Fevzi’s practicing his strokes, you see? Every evening, when his father’s home, Fevzi takes the caique out and learns to pull. Little Gul, begging for a ride. But they wouldn’t let her go, see? She was only a little girl.”