“Were all the Karagozi Janissaries?”
“No. All the Janissaries were Karagozi, broadly speaking. Which is not the same thing. Perhaps, my friend, we have been too quick to speak of them and their doctrines in the past tense. The blow to the Janissaries? A setback. Maybe, in the end, a cre—ative one. You know, faith may sharpen itself in adversity. I would imagine that we have not heard the last of the Karagozi. Perhaps not under that name, but the currents of spirituality they tap are deep.”
“But proscribed, as you said. Forbidden.”
“Ah, well, here in Istanbul, yes. But they have made a long journey. Once they listened to a baba from the steppe. Since then they have passed through the heartlands of Islam, the Domain of Peace, and now they stand on its borders. As sentinel, perhaps.”
The imam smiled.
“Don’t look so surprised. The doctrine of the Karagozi won many frontiers for Islam. Perhaps it will do so again.”
“Which borders? Where do you mean?”
“They are strong where you’d expect them to be. In Albania. Where the Janissaries were always strong.”
Yashim nodded.
“There’s a poem. You seem to know a lot, so perhaps you know this, too.”
He recited the verses he had found nailed to the Janissary Tree.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They spread.
Flee.
Unknowing
And knowing nothing of unknowing,
They seek.
Teach them.
The imam frowned. “It is, I recall, an Karagozi verse. Yes, I know it. Highly esoteric, don’t you agree? Typically secretive. It goes on to suggest some form of mystical union with the divine, as far as I remember.”
“What do you mean, it goes on?”
“The poem you’ve quoted is incomplete.” The imam looked surprised. “I’m afraid I can’t recite it exactly.”
“But you could, perhaps, find out?”
“By the grace of God,” said the imam placidly. “If you’re interested, I can try.”
“I would be grateful,” Yashim said, rising.
They bowed to one another. Just as Yashim turned to go, the imam turned his face to the window.
“Sufic mysteries,” he said quietly. “Beautiful in their way, but ethereal. I don’t think they would mean much to the ordinary people. Or perhaps, I don’t know, too much. There’s a lot of passion, and even faith, in this kind of poetry, but in the end it doesn’t suit the believers. It’s too free, too dangerous.”
I don’t know about free, Yashim reflected.
But dangerous, yes.
Certainly dangerous.
Even murderous.
[ 30 ]
He saw her swinging down the street, tall and graceful and challenging the men to stare. A few yards from him she slowed and began to look around.
He put up a hand and waved her across.
She dragged back a stool and sat down abruptly. A group of old men playing backgammon at the next table rubbernecked with obvious stupefaction; but Preen didn’t notice, or care.
“Coffee,” she said.
Yashim ordered two, avoiding the tray boy’s curious stare. Not for the first time in his life he wanted to stand up and explain. She’s not, in fact, a woman, so everything is as it should be. She’s a man, dressed as a woman. But he admired her courage in coming to the cafe. He nodded grimly at the old men.
With scarcely a trace of make-up, the flush in Preen’s cheeks was reaclass="underline" she looked, Yashim thought, better for it.
“We can’t talk here,” he said. “I’ll cut along home, and you can join—”
“We’ll talk here,” she replied through gritted teeth. The boy served the coffees, and began to flick a duster over an adjoining table. Yashim caught his eye and jerked his head. The boy sloped off, disappointed.
“I’ve got reasons for discretion, Preen.”
She drew breath through her nose. Her chest heaved.
“Such as?”
He looked at her. “You’re looking good today,” he said.
“Cut it out.”
She sounded tough, but she kept her eyes on the table and moved her head slowly from side to side. A trace of pleasure.
“It’s better if we’re not seen together at the moment. It’s my job to blend in, to slip by unobserved. As for you, well, I’m not sure what we’re into here.”
“I’m a big girl,” said Preen. Her lip quivered. Yashim grinned. Preen covered her mouth with a hand and shot him a look. Then she giggled.
“Oh, I know I’m naughty, sweetie. I just couldn’t help it. I had to do something a bit wild, see someone I like. Shock them, too. To feel alive.” She let a shiver of pleasure run through her body. “’ve been talking to Istanbul’s most disgusting man.”
Yashim raised his eyebrows.
“I’m amazed you can be so sure.”
“A hunchbacked pimp, from the docks? I’m sure. He says someone saw your friends the other night.”
Yashim leaned forwards.
“Where?”
“Somewhere reasonably salubrious. Is salubrious the word I want, Yashim?”
“Possibly. Your—informant—he wasn’t there himself?”
“Not that he told me. Don’t you want to know where?”
“Of course I want to know.”
“It’s some sort of gardens,” Preen explained. “Along the Bosphorus.”
“Ah.” Perhaps salubrious was the word Preen wanted: all things are relative, after all.
“There’s a kiosk there, apparently, perfectly clean. There are even little lanterns in the trees.” Preen sounded almost wistful. “You can sit there and talk, and watch the boats in the straits, and have a coffee or a pipe.”
Or an assignation, Yashim thought. The Yeyleyi Gardens were once a favourite of the court: the sultan would take his women to picnic there, among the trees. That must have been almost a century ago. The sultans had stopped coming when the place became popular; in time it grew faintly notorious. Not entirely respectable, the Yeyleyi Gardens had been the sort of place where lovers used to arrange to meet by accident, communicating in the tender and semi-secret language of flowers. These days the encounters were more spontaneous, but even better arranged, and the language possibly mercenary. He could quite imagine it being visited—a little hopefully—by what the serask-ier called boys of good family.
“So—what? They arrived, had a pipe and a coffee, and left together?”
“So I’m told.”
“By boat?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say anything about a boat. No, wait, I think they left in a cab.”
“All four of them together?”
“All five.”
Yashim looked up sharply. Preen tittered.
“Four came, but five left.”
“Yes, I see. And do you, Preen, know anything about this Number Five?”
“Oh, yes. He was a Russian.”
“A Russian? You’re sure?”
Yashim thought about this. Stambouliots had a tendency to mark down everyone vaguely foreign, and fair, as a Russian these days. It was a function of the late war; and of all the wars the Porte had fought with the czar’s men over the last hundred years; increasingly ending with the defeat of the sultan’s army, and further tough demands.
“I think it must have been true,” Preen said. “He was in a uniform.”
“What?!”
Preen laughed. “White, with gold braid. Very smart. Ve-ry big guy. And a sort of medal on his chest, like a star, with rays.”
“Preen, this is gold dust. How did you get it?”
She thought of the young Greek sailor.
“I made a few sacrifices,” she smiled. Then she thought of Yorg and her smile faded.
[ 31 ]
Istanbul was not a city which kept late hours. After ten, for the most part, when the sun had long since sunk beneath the Princes’ islands in the Sea of Marmara, the streets were quiet and deserted. Dogs sometimes snarled and snapped in the alleyways, or took to howling down on the shore, but those sounds, like the muezzin’s call to prayer at first light, were the night noises of Istanbul, and no one thought more about them.