Advancing at a brisk pace along the street, he swung his cane from side to side and glared suspiciously at the yellow dogs; while they merely yawned, or scratched their fleas, and pretended not to notice Dr. Millingen.
22
VENICE and Istanbuclass="underline" the client and the source. For centuries, the two cities were locked together in trade and war, jockeying for advantage in the eastern Mediterranean. Istanbul had many faces, but one, like Venice’s, was turned to the sea. Like Venice, too, the greatest thoroughfares of Istanbul were waterways; people were forever passing from the city to Üsküdar, from Üsküdar to Pera, and from Pera to the city again, across the Golden Horn. The famous gondolas of Venice were no more central to life in the lagoon than caïques to the people of Istanbul, and while the Venetian gondola had its champions, most people would have agreed that the caïque was superior in point of elegance and speed. Even after dark, the caïques swarmed around the landing stages like water beetles.
“Forget the ship’s boat,” Lefèvre said quietly. “It’s better that I leave from here unnoticed. Galata is all eyes.”
They left Yashim’s lodging after dark, moving quietly on foot through the deserted streets. Lefèvre shouldered the satchel, which apparently contained everything he possessed. The narrow streets of the Fener were silent and dark, but Yashim led his companion through them by instinct, now and again pausing to feel for a corner stone or to put his hand gently on the other man’s shoulder. Once, a big dog growled out of the darkness, but it wasn’t until they reached the landing stage that they met with any other sign of life: the city could have been uninhabited.
Down by the stage, Pera twinkled out across the black water of the Golden Horn. Lamps bobbed gently on the stems of the caïques drawn up against the quay, where a handful of Greek boatmen sat among the coils of rope, the creels and nets, murmuring together and smoking pipes that glowed red in the dark. Lower down the Horn a few ships rode at anchor, with lanterns at their prows. The water slapped darkly against the pilings where the caïques were moored.
A boatman uncoiled himself with catlike ease and stepped forward.
“The Ca d’Oro? I know the ship. She’s moored off the point. Both of you?”
Yashim explained it was just one passenger, and fixed a price. He shook hands with Lefèvre and watched him settle himself into the bottom of the caïque, the satchel on his knees. Then the boatman tapped out his pipe, stepped into the caïque’s stern, and pushed off with a practiced flick of the wrist, which sent the frail craft skimming out into the darkness.
Yashim raised a hand in farewell, certain that the Frenchman would see him framed against the low lights of the landing stage. He thought of his friend Palewski: he’d be pleased by the story. Better pleased by the reflection that neither of them would ever have to see Lefèvre again.
He smiled to himself. The light of the caïque had blended into the darkness, so he dropped his hand and turned and went home.
23
FROZEN at an angle just wide enough to admit a visitor on foot, the carriage gates of the Polish ambassador’s residency rusted on their hinges, escutcheons peeling on the iron shield. They seemed, like Poland itself, to represent an idea: certainly they had not opened to receive a carriage since the eighteenth century, when Poland succumbed to the territorial ambitions of her greedy and more powerful neighbors. A Janissary guard had once been stationed at the gates, but the Janissaries had been brutally suppressed in 1826, and afterward nobody thought to replace the sentries. Visitors, in truth, were few and far between.
Turning in at the gate, Yashim was surprised to find himself silently challenged by a sentry, who stood with folded arms, blocking his way. He was small for the job, and had a dirty face; he held a stick across his chest and a look in his eye that brooked no opposition.
Yashim bowed politely. “My name is Yashim. Is His Excellency the Ambassador at home?”
The little sentry shouldered his arms, swung abruptly on his bare heel, and walked stiffly toward the front door, where he took up a position at the foot of the steps. Yashim passed him with a nod. At the top of the steps he pushed the door, which opened with a creak.
“Don’t bother knocking, confound you,” said a voice from the darkened hall. “Just push in, do.”
Yashim obeyed. Stanislaw Palewski, Polish ambassador to the Sublime Porte, was leaning on the banisters, waving an arm in ironic salute.
“Oh—it’s you, Yashim! That’s all right. Come inside. Ever since I lost the key I keep finding total strangers wandering around the house.”
“I thought you were being rather well guarded.”
“Guarded? I suppose you mean the Xanis. Ye-es. The little boy shows promise. More than I can say for his father. Come upstairs.”
Yashim followed his old friend to the sitting room, where they rang for tea. Yashim tucked his feet up in one of the ambassador’s leaky leather armchairs while Palewski fell to pacing between the untidy bookcases and the portrait of King Jan Sobieski. Marta arrived with a tray, and Palewski nodded distractedly. Yashim poured the tea.
When Marta had left, Palewski turned around and said: “What do you make of Marta, Yashim?”
Yashim raised an eyebrow. “Marta?”
“My housekeeper.”
“I know who Marta is, Palewski. I’ve known her for years.”
“Yes. Yes, of course. Well, I’m a bit worried about her.”
“You think she’s ill?”
“Ill? No, I don’t think so. It’s just that there’s something—she’s started—oh, I don’t know, Yashim, but she’s gone a bit odd. Dreamy, half the time. I come around a corner and she’s there, leaning on a broom, staring into space. And tears.”
“Tears?”
“She bursts into tears. I ask something, and she goes all red and darts away. Fact is, Yash, I’m beginning to think that she’s not happy.”
“I see.”
“Do you think that’s why she got the Xanis in?”
“The family in the coach house? Yes, for company. You might be right.”
Palewski looked dubious. “Can’t say they’re much by way of company. Mrs. Xani seems to spend the day inside sweeping the coach house, and the children muck about in the courtyard. The boy doesn’t talk, for some reason. I don’t think he’s dumb, just won’t talk. It’s rather odd. But Marta seems very fond of children, so I don’t complain. It was her idea to get them in the first place. Put a roof over their heads. The little girl likes to help her cook.”
“What about the father?”
“Xani? Moved in, all gratitude and smiles. Then he went and joined the watermen’s guild. He became a su yolu. So much for all those little repairs he was going to do.”
“Xani joined the watermen? I thought you had to be born into the job.”
Palewski shook his head. “As a rule, that’s true. But if a waterman dies without a successor, they let someone buy his way in. As long as he’s Albanian, that is. I suppose he had a cousin or someone to propose him. But look, enough about Xani,” he added, waving a hand. He seemed to have forgotten about Marta for the moment, so Yashim told him, instead, about Lefèvre’s mysterious arrival—and departure.
“And the forty piastres?” Palewski arched his brows. “I don’t suppose you’ll be seeing them again, either. Really, Yashim, you should have made that scoundrel pay up.”
Yashim sighed. “I did try.”
“But not very hard.”
“No. Not very hard.” How could he explain to his friend how the sight of Lefèvre’s pathetic satchel had changed everything between them? “I’ll think of it as a tax. The city is better off without a man like Lefèvre in it.”