I asked if we were bound for a country estate. With some amusement Count Siniutkin told me to relax and enjoy the journey. ‘This could be your best opportunity of seeing the real Turkey. It has broadened my understanding of their attitudes and made me more sympathetic to what is presently going on in Turkish politics.’
I was having my usual difficulty with my nervousness at entering a singularly rural environment, with no image of our ultimate destination to reassure me. The road had become poor, causing the car to bump and bounce. I did not wish to be rude, but it was on the tip of my tongue to tell the Count that I had not the slightest interest in broadening my sympathies for any worshipper of Islam. ‘How long before we return to Constantinople?’ I asked him.
‘Not too long. A day or so. Perhaps a little more.’
Now I was forced to suppress distinct panic. ‘I had not expected to be away even one night,’ I said, ‘I trust it’s possible to send a telegram back to Pera. People there will worry about me, you see.’ I did not want either the Baroness or Esmé to become so worried they would disturb my careful plans. There was no telling what could go wrong if I was gone more than twenty-four hours. ‘Of course.’ Siniutkin patted my arm. ‘Write the message. I’ll see it’s sent.’
The thickly wooded hills gave off a heavy, damp scent I found relaxing. Bit by bit I recovered myself, ‘Is your backer a cripple, perhaps?’ I wondered why he could not travel to Scutari. ‘This is an expensive car. An Armenian, eh? Or a wealthy Greek?’
Siniutkin laughed, as if I had made a deliberate joke. The car emerged from the wood, turned a corner and began to ascend an even steeper hill. We reached the crest. A beautiful valley stretched below, with small lakes, rivers, vineyards and groves of fruit-trees. On the far side of the valley was a great mountain, its tallest peak still covered in snow. The valley might have been from Greek antiquity, a lost land, untouched by time, unspoiled by modern industry. ‘There’s Mount Olympus,’ said the Count, as if to reinforce my fantasy. ‘Or so the first Greek colonists thought. Your new business partners live on one of its lower slopes. As I know you’ve guessed, they’re Turkish. But not the old kind of Turk. You’ll get on with them. They’re more progressive than most Russians.’ This, I was sure, was more a tribute to the Count’s optimism than his good judgement, but I kept my own counsel. I did not care for the contradiction of a ‘progressive’ Turk, but any backer in those days was better than none. As long as the Turks refused to use my ideas to support Bolsheviks, I would deal with them. I could not readily see how the Turks would wish to war on anyone at present, unless it was those they traditionally persecuted.
The air became hotter as the day went on. We lost sight of the valley more than once during our descent. Eventually I could no longer tell exactly where we were. The road wound through little canyons and woods, passing tiny farms and plantations and drawing ever closer to Olympus, which Turks, the Count explained, called Mount Boulgourlou. Here and there were remains of grim Crusader fortresses, Moorish castles, Greek and Roman columns. The region’s whole history seemed represented by a magnificent junk pile. I was lulled into unsuspicious ease by this landscape. It was without doubt the most delightful I had ever experienced. The sun set behind us; the car took another steep, winding road then turned suddenly into a wooded driveway, rattling its gears to negotiate a final sharply ascending gravel rise and bring us to the forecourt of an impressively large old villa. The place looked as if it had not been lived in for some while. I had become so used, however, to the carelessness of even upper class Turks towards repairs and maintenance that I could no longer be sure my impression was right. The villa’s style was more Neapolitan than Turkish, but its windows had the usual intricately carved geometrical lattices. There were long, white balconies with wrought-iron railings, mosaic terraces, a blue-tiled fountain, slender pillars. I half expected a salaaming, exotically turbanned Nubian to open the car’s door for us. Actually the chauffeur did this, saluting as we got out, then an ordinary, barefooted house servant in fez, baggy white trousers and sleeveless jacket, ran quickly down the main steps and spoke in Turkish to Count Siniutkin, who understood him. He indicated we should climb to the first terrace where, under a silk awning, we found a table laid with glasses and plates. Looking at me the servant asked a question in thick, impassive French. ‘Will you take some masticha?’ said the Count. ‘This is an Islamic house, I’m afraid. The other choices are tea, coffee, lemonade.’ I accepted the masticha and we sat down.
The house was surrounded by thick woods but here and there it was possible to see the slope of the mountain above, the glint of distant ocean. ‘This is where the Byzantine Emperors built their hunting lodges,’ said Count Siniutkin. ‘It is supposed to have the loveliest of all views.’
On a tray the servant brought the drink: a jug, with ice and water. Count Siniutkin poured a little masticha into a glass, then topped it to the brim with water. I held the drink to the light to enjoy its opalescent colours, then sniffed its sweet aroma. The heavy air carried a scent of roses, jasmine and fuchsia. As the sky darkened to a greenish blue I was filled with a wonderful sense of well-being. Almost to counter this, I pulled myself together and reminded the Count of his promise to send a telegram. ‘Give me the message,’ he said, rising at once. I took my writing case, addressing a sheet of paper to Mademoiselle Esmé Loukianoff at our suite in Tokatlian’s. I told her not to worry about me, to seek out the Baroness if she needed company but to remain discreet. All was well. I should see her in a matter of days. I remembered how she had wept when in the past I had been gone only a few hours. Yet the telegram was the best I could do, though it upset me that Siniutkin was now more intimate with my private life.
‘A lady?’ He lifted an eyebrow.
I had to explain she was my ward. (My fear was that somehow Leda would find Esmé at Tokatlian’s and thus doubt the rest of my story.) But I had done all I could. I waved my hand. ‘Family matters. I would be obliged if you mentioned nothing of this telegram when you next meet the Baroness.’
‘My dear chap! Of course!’ Count Siniutkin was playfully sober. ‘I’ll get this off immediately. A servant will take the message into Shamlaya before supper.’
‘I thought for a moment there was a private wireless. The owner of this villa is evidently wealthy.’
‘He comes from a very old family.’ Count Siniutkin bowed then before ascending a short flight of steps leading through an archway into the house. ‘I’ll deal with this now.’
I leaned back on my divan, enjoying the delicious tranquillity of that magical garden. Birds began a dusk chorus, the fountains sang, the air grew richer by the second. Soon I hoped to buy a similar villa as a reward for all my anguish. While certain I was unobserved, I took a quick pinch of cocaine from my little silver box and added a final touch to my exquisite mood. All I needed was a tchibouk to smoke, a couple of lovely little haremliks to worship me and I would be happy as any Sultan. It was my first real experience of the way Orientals lull their guests, making them drunk on exotic sensations, using nothing as crude as wine. Yet I had no reason to doubt Siniutkin. He was Kolya’s friend. A man of impeccable background and Christian. He would never betray me to a Moslem.
When the Count came back it was with a grey-bearded little fellow in the uniform of a Turkish bimbashi whose grave, light blue eyes stared from a face scarcely darker than my own, though his was tanned by the sun. He shook hands, greeting me formally in good, clear Russian. ‘I am Major Hakir, Monsieur Pyat.’ The Count said: ‘Major Hakir represents a friend who cannot be here.’