The vendor turned back with a puzzled look on his face. Then he looked down at his knife, and the bread in his hands, as if he wasn’t sure why they were there. His customer turned away with a snort.
“Forget it. Life’s too short.”
The meatball man seemed not to have heard. He turned his head and looked over his shoulder again.
Eslek followed his gaze. The little dog was still trotting in the wheel, with his tongue hanging out. But it wasn’t the abandoned dog which attracted Eslek’s attention so much as the meat hanging on the spit. It had been tightly bound to set it once the heat caught it; but with no one about to baste the meat, it was beginning to shrink. The pack of meat was gradually unravelling, stiffening, revealing to Eslek the shape of the beast it had once been. Two of its legs, paring away from the surprisingly slender body, were thick; the other two were smaller, wizened, in an attitude of prayer. It could have been a hare, except that that it was ten times bigger than any hare Eslek had ever seen.
The meatball vendor must have noticed him, because he sud—denly said: “I don’t get what’s going on. There’s been no one at that stall all morning, not since I come. The dog must be fair knackered.” He swallowed, and Eslek could see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “And what the fuck’s on the spit?”
Eslek felt the hairs prickling on the back of his neck.
“I’ll tell you one thing, mate,” he growled. “It sure as shit ain’t halal.”
He put a hand up to his amulet and gripped it hard. The meatball vendor began to mumble something: he was praying, Eslek realised, running through the ninety-nine names of God while he stared in horror at the trunk and limbs of a human being, popping and blackening over the smouldering coals.
[ 104 ]
Yashim didn’t hear the shouts until he was almost out of the tower. He and the porter stood on the parapet, trying to see round the aged cypress tree. In a moment the space below them was thronged with people trying to get away, cramming into the alley, voices raised. He heard several people shout: “The kadi! Fetch the kadi!” and a woman screamed. One of the juggler’s wooden batons sailed up into the cypress and clattered down again, striking against the branches, as the crowd jostled against him.
Yashim looked out over the square. There was no point trying to get down there, he realised, while crowds were still pouring down the alley. Someone beneath him stumbled, and a basket of vegetables went flying. “Go! Go!” The porter was hopping from foot to foot.
He could see the kadi now, stepping out of his booth into a knot of men all gesticulating and pointing. Further to the left he saw that a ring had formed among the stalls, leaving one of them isolated in the middle. He glanced below. The crowd had stopped running. People were standing in little groups, while those closest to the mouth of the alley had turned around, and were craning their necks nervously to watch the square.
Yashim broke into a trot along the parapet, leaped down the steps and darted up through the passageway. Somebody clutched at his arm, but he shrugged them off, dodging his way back into the square between the knots of bystanders. As he ran towards the ring of men he saw Murad Eslek leading the kadi forwards. The men shuffled aside to let them through, and Yashim dashed through on their heels.
One glance showed him all he needed to see.
The kadi was speechless. The spit was still turning; at every turn one of the wizened arms flopped towards the ground. Yashim stepped forwards and put his hand on the wheel, and the little dog simply sank down inside it, panting.
“We need to rake out the fire,” Yashim said, turning to Eslek. “Get the porters, and a barrow. A donkey cart will do. We’ve got to get this…this thing out of here.”
Eslek closed his eyes a moment and nodded. “I…I never thought—” He didn’t finish his sentence but turned away to organise the porters.
The kadi, meanwhile, had started ranting at the crowd, waving his fists.
“Get away! Go back to work! You think I’m finished, do you? I’ll show you! Some kind of joke, is it?” He clapped his fists to his temples and stared at them all, rocking on his heels. In his market! Disgrace. Disgrace and shame. Who had done this to him?
He stalked forwards, and the men stumbled back to get out of his way. He strode to his booth and went in, slamming the door.
In the stunned silence which followed a few men, like Yashim, seemed to notice the smell for the first time. Pleasant, rich without being heavy, like veal. They, too, turned away.
The meatball vendor was loudly and violently sick.
Yashim saw Eslek returning with the porters, carrying brooms and rakes.
He spoke to him for a few minutes. He interviewed the meatball vendor, who was unable to stop himself shuddering.
No one had seen anything. As far as the meatball vendor was concerned, the spit was already running before he started setting up. He’d thought it strange, yes, but he had work to do and hadn’t given it another thought until after daybreak. He’d been concerned for the dog, really.
It was the dog that had caught his attention, at the first.
[ 105 ]
The valide’s jewels sparkled in the yellow light. In that greasy chamber they were the only objects that could catch the eye.
There was magic in them. The magic that conferred power. No one could look away from these jewels, any more than a rabbit could take its eyes off a snake.
The smooth fingers stole forward and stroked them.
Ferenghi magic, maybe. What difference could that make? The fingers stiffened. There might be words that needed to be said. Invocations. Incantations. That was an unforeseen possibility. This zigzagged figure that appeared on each of the jewels could be a word, perhaps, or a sound.
No. Possession was what mattered most. Whoever held the jewels enjoyed the power they conferred. Napoleon, to scatter even the armies of the faithful—everyone knew that he had luck beyond the ordinary share. Fool! He had parted with the jewels and his luck had changed. And the valide, too: she’d done well for herself ever since the jewels arrived. Clawed her way to the top, across a battleground far more dangerous than any the French emperor had ever faced, where whispers were lances, and knowledge battalions, and beauty marched in the ranks.
We knew all about that, didn’t we? Knew how hard it was to emerge standing from that melee, not to be kicked back, pulled down, to wither in obscurity. And then to reach one’s goal, to stand at the apex, to have complete power over creatures who grovelled and cringed at a single word!
Nothing could destroy that. No one could take that away.
Not with these in one’s possession.
And a pair of lips puckered and came forward to kiss the jewels.
[ 106 ]
Yashim curled his fingers around the little cup and stared down gratefully at the black liquid settled heavily inside. No spice and a hint of sweet. As he brought it to his nose, a shadow fell across the table and he looked up in surprise.
“Please,” he said, motioning to a stool.
The soup master placed his enormous hands on the table and sank his weight onto the stool. His eyes swung around the cafe, taking in the other customers, the two stoves, the glittering wall of coffee pots. He gave a sniff.
“The coffee smells good.”
“It’s fresh Arabica,” Yashim replied. “They roast the beans here every morning. Too many people buy the Peruvian kind, don’t you think? It is cheap, but it always tastes stale to me.”
The soup master nodded. Without moving his hand from the table he raised his fingers and nodded solemnly at the proprietor, who came forward bowing.