Still furious, Celal turned to Céline and took two firm steps towards her. In return he received two resounding slaps across his freshly shaved cheeks. Céline rushed over to Jean, taking his head in her arms and dabbing with her scarf at the blood oozing from his mouth.
His cheeks burning, Celal sat back down on the bed and looked at Jean.
“He used to call me ‘the Sultan’s whore’?”
Jean lifted his head from Céline’s lap, got up and lowered himself into a chair, heaving a sigh as he undid the top buttons of his shirt. He reached out and picked up the mirror, which he set on his chest and started using to examine his mouth, occasionally glancing up at Celal. Rubbing his cheek, he felt around in his mouth with his tongue, probing the gaps where the two teeth had once been, and then lowered the mirror to his lap.
Céline walked to the door and opened it. Over the roar of the wind blowing in from outside, she shouted, “We don’t have much time, so you two finish up your pissing competition,” and then she walked out and slammed the door behind her.
The two men sat in silence, avoiding each other’s gaze. After a while Celal got up and walked towards the kitchen. “I’m going to make coffee,” he said. “There’s cognac and glasses over there. Pour us some.”
“I’d say that for a Sultan’s whore you like to order people around too much.”
“Well, I’d like to kill you but we don’t always get our way in life.”
“If everything goes according to plan, no one’s going to want to kill anyone else ever again.”
“I wouldn’t make such grand statements if I were you.”
“Well, according to the official records I’m a dead man, so I’d say that I have every right to say anything I want. Celal, you must understand that I had to hide. There’s no better way to hide than to die, and it’s even better if you are murdered. But if your body isn’t found, that’s a problem because they might come looking for you. So when I had to go into hiding, a corpse was needed. I paid off the gambling debt of a janitor at the medical school, and he agreed to tell me when a body came in that would be a good match for me. I waited for two months. When a suitable body finally showed up, I had the janitor put on a fake beard and we took the money out of the account you and I shared. Then we dressed up the body in some of my clothes, put my identity papers in his pocket, and shot him in the face… It never occurred to me that you would be so upset.”
Jean reached into his left pocket and pulled out a revolver.
“You weren’t part of the plan, Celal. Sure, it’s touching that you were so moved by my death, but why did you come all the way to France instead of enjoying your life as an aristocrat in Istanbul?”
Celal rushed angrily towards Jean, but the Frenchman held the revolver steadily in two hands, aimed at Celal.
“I’m sure that we can work something out, Celal. It’d be easy for you to convince me of anything you want. But if you take one more step, I’ll have no choice but to shoot you, at least in the leg, and there’s no need for that. Just tell me why you’re here in Belgrade working at a circus. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.”
“Guns aren’t your style, Jean. So calm down. And don’t worry—I’m not going to try anything. The cack-handed way you’re holding that gun tells me that even if you tried to shoot me in the leg, you’d probably put a bullet through the middle of my forehead by mistake. Yes, there is a logical explanation for my being here. An angel’s trumpet hookah pipe in fact! Actually there are a lot of reasons for my being here. If Karachiyano hadn’t crossed my path when I was drunk, we wouldn’t have had that wrestling match. If I hadn’t smoked that hookah laced with angel’s trumpet, I wouldn’t have hallucinated and lost, and I wouldn’t have been forced to leave the city and go to Marseille. But that still doesn’t explain why I’m here. When I found out that my dear friend Jean had been killed and was questioned by the police, I decided to go to Paris even though I was penniless. After a few stops here and there, I ended up in this place. If you hadn’t disappeared and taken off with my money, I’d be in Marseille right now living it up and writing more stories. So, Jean, I suggest you carefully put that gun back into your pocket before you shoot me or shoot yourself by accident, and then tell me why you had to fake your own death. It’s your turn to answer the question you asked me. Why are you here, Jean?”
Jean smiled and murmured, “So, it was Karachiyano…” and then slipped the gun back into his pocket.
“Celal, you’re here because of Sahir, and I had to die because of him. But I never thought that you’d get tangled up in this too. Karachiyano works for the Italian consulate as a translator, right? It’s a cover. He’s actually a gunrunner, but working at the consulate helps him get things through customs. A clever swindler, that one. And seeing as he drove you out of Istanbul, you’ve probably worked that out, too. Sahir got it in his head to involve you. You see, Karachiyano works for Sahir as well, meaning that he’s the reason you’re here, not me. Ah, Celal, it’s like we’re all part of a big family that doesn’t get along. You were just a distant relative until recently, but now you’re a fully fledged member.”
“Were you really going to shoot me?”
“No, it’s just a toy gun. A circus prop.”
“For once I’d like for something to be real.”
“My story is real for the most part. And it seems like it’s going to continue with all of us. You, me, Sahir, Céline. We’re all part of the same family that was pulled together by Arif and Pierre. A family bound to the peace machine. You were outside the family, because Arif had given up on the peace machine when you saved his life. He’d never been convinced that it was a good idea to meddle with people’s free will and he thought that it was a sign when you came into his life. He once said, ‘If a child can take down a bull, humanity can achieve peace through its own free will.’ Still, he and Pierre stayed in touch by letter. When Arif was thinking about sending you to France to study, he asked Pierre for his opinion. Pierre recommended that he send you to the school I was attending, as did my mother and father. You see, Monsieur Pierre was my uncle.”
Celal found a pair of trousers in the closet from which Céline had taken the shirt she’d given him. Pulling off the blanket wrapped around his waist, he put the trousers on and then refilled Jean’s empty glass.
“So it would seem that being an orphan has its advantages. Why didn’t you ever tell me any of this?”
“Every family has its secrets, Celal. And I didn’t know about many of them myself until just recently. I was working for Sahir but I knew nothing about Arif or the peace machine. Sahir isn’t fond of entertainment but he enjoys the business of entertainment. Sahir and I were in charge of printing and distributing your books, and he also runs the photography studio. These days he’s developed a taste for cinema. His latest idea is to turn some of your books into films and show them at brothels—for a fee, of course—to get the clients excited. You have to admit, it’s a brilliant idea. Sahir is involved in thousands of other things. I was in charge of the erotic book and nightlife end of his business. It wasn’t a great life but I wasn’t complaining much. If Céline hadn’t got that letter when she turned twenty-one, I probably would’ve gone on getting by in life and you would’ve made a small fortune with your books.”
Celal reached out and rummaged through his leather bag. “You might be right,” he said. “But why did you disappear with all the money?”
“Because of the letter. Also perhaps because of my foolishness. Probably a bit of both. Isn’t that how it usually is?”
“For you, you mean.”
“Isn’t everything that happens the result of various causes? I’m no exception to the rule.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that you’re foolish.”
“Fine, you’ve got me there. The notary’s clerk delivered the letter. My uncle Pierre had entrusted a letter to the notary with the instructions that it was to be delivered to her on Céline’s twenty-first birthday. And wha
t a letter it was… We found out that Sahir wasn’t really an orphan whom Pierre had met during one of his excursions. We also learnt that neither Arif Bey nor you were what you seemed. I mean, we always knew that you were strong, but how could a boy take down a bull?”
“If you don’t slow down and fill in the details I’m going to take you down any second now.”
“Patience, my friend, patience. It was more like a book than a letter. It explained everything: his conversations with Arif, Sahir, his experiments… Of course it was mostly about the peace machine. It was filled with details—formulas, drawings, you name it. The letter was like an instruction manual.”
“I saw a model of the machine at Sahir’s place in Paris.”
“But you didn’t see it work—because it doesn’t work. Rather, the one that Sahir has doesn’t work. So we mentioned the letter to Sahir, except for the part about the drawings.”
“Why?”
“Celal, you just knocked out my teeth and now you want to interrogate me?”
Jean walked over to the window and looked outside.
“The wind’s dying down. Let’s go out. We can talk about the rest of this with Céline. Isn’t it true that families have secrets, but that at the same time everything’s out in the open?”
Using the clips, they put Jean’s wig back on. He pointed to the bushy moustache that covered his upper lip. “It’s still there despite the slap you gave me. The glue I used is extraordinary.”
“That’s just great.”
“Aren’t you going to be cold?”
Celal opened the door. It swung open easily in the light breeze. “So who’s going to play the characters in the films based on my books?”
“I, of course, now that I’ve mastered the art of wigs and fake moustaches.”
Celal paused in the doorway. “And Céline?”
Jean popped a piece of chocolate into his mouth, and as he left he muttered, “Come on, Celal, I thought you would’ve worked out by now that she’s more interested in directing.”
“I drank pear brandy / And passed over the railway bridge / Arriving at truth’s abode… Pear brandy, plum brandy, cherry brandy, fig brandy, peach brandy, even grape brandy. The spirits aren’t so bad here. It would seem that these gentlemen have settled their quarrel. That’s something to celebrate, so come on, boys.”
Céline was sitting at a wooden table in a tall, broad circus wagon. She held out two glasses. Jean stepped into the wagon and sat down opposite Céline. In a single gulp he downed the drink she’d offered him.
“You know, Celal, it’s a bit like Calvados.”
“You shouldn’t drink it so quickly.”
“Celal’s been here a long time. You should listen to him.”
With that, Céline downed her own glass, which had been filled to the brim, and then poured and drank another.
“Then again, speed is a relative concept. Celal, don’t just stand there. Come in and have a seat so that we can drink to your rekindled friendship.”
He sat down and twirled his glass of apple brandy. After taking a measured sip, he swished the brandy around in his mouth and swallowed it.
Jean pulled from his pocket a small glass vial containing a white powder. Pressing the thumb and forefinger of his right hand together, he shook some of the powder into the gap between his fingers and sniffed it up his nose with a quick snort. The whites of his eyes suddenly glowed and he turned to Céline and Celal with a smile, launching into a monologue that lasted for hours, whipped on as he was by the snorts he took, one after another.
As Jean explained and explained, Celal and Céline drank and drank.
Celal’s mind recorded all that Jean said. “Recorded” is perhaps not the right word; he processed what he was hearing, but in the end, even though his mind was still in full control of his body, Celal had become little more than a stone, a very heavy stone that Céline seemed to be hewing and shaping with her gaze. Céline’s eyes seared his flesh as they moved across his body, filling him with a throbbing pain.
Jean explained that Sahir was actually a gun merchant after nothing but money, and that, as business had expanded, his companies had signed deals with certain governments to keep them in power. He then said that Şerif Efendi’s books had inspired him to set up a prostitution empire that he ran by means of blackmail, drawing people into his inescapable web of intrigue, and that there wasn’t a minister, parliamentarian or business owner who wasn’t in Sahir’s pocket, either directly or through Jean.
Jean said, “We’ll activate the peace machine on the opening night of the circus, when no one’s expecting it—especially not Sahir.”
Jean tapped the remaining powder onto his moistened finger, which he then rubbed on his gums.
“If you’re with me, we’ll turn it on during the first show.”
Celal ran his fingers across Céline’s waist. She smiled at Jean and said, “Get out.” Jean obediently got up and left.
Celal ceased to be a stone, as he touched her and rediscovered his body.
His hands, the hands of a blind man, drew Céline in the darkness of his mind.
11
The Circus Dervish
THE QUEEN’S DELUSIONS
SPECTRE OF REVOLT IN BELGRADE
Telegram from our local correspondent
LONDON, 3RD MAY 1903
King Alexander, who married his mother’s lady-in-waiting despite the protests of the National Assembly members, was recently overjoyed to hear that his marriage had been blessed with a child. However, it has since emerged that he had been deceived by the Queen’s delusions. It is not yet clear whether the Queen deliberately deceived the King or was the victim of a hysterical episode. Regardless, preparations for celebration in Serbia had been made for nothing.
Dr Stegireff had publicly expressed doubts that the Queen was with child, whereupon, in an attempt to reassure the King and Queen, Dr Caulet accused Dr Stegireff of being an incompetent fool. The Tsar, aware of the ongoing dispute between the two physicians, demanded an inquiry into the matter.
On the orders of the Tsar, Dr Wertheim, a resident of Vienna, and Dr Kantakuzen, a resident of Bucharest, examined the Queen and reported that she had not been guilty of ill intentions, had truly believed that she was with child, and was suffering from an inflammation of the uterus. If my sources are correct, it appears that it will be difficult for the Queen to fulfil the King’s hopes.
On hearing of this latest development, the people of Serbia, already disgruntled with the Queen, have become even more indignant, and it is said that the military has begun to seriously consider the possibility of a revolt for the sake of the citizenry.
Alongside Queen Draga’s “hysterical episodes”, a new law which determines that on the King’s death the crown will pass to the Queen’s brother has prompted a rumour that a group of army officers is preparing to overthrow the King and place the exiled Peter Karageorgevic on the throne in his stead.
THE SHARP SCENT of spirits lingering in the air seared Dragan’s nostrils, bringing tears to his eyes. The translation of the article had been printed in faint ink on the newspaper’s yellowed onion-skin paper, and some of the letters were illegible.
For those who read the story, the phantom pregnancy was a relatively easy riddle to solve. Vesna gently pushed the newspaper across the table towards Dragan, who said that he’d already read it. She got up and walked to the window, the frame of which was freshly varnished. When he saw her struggling to open it, Dragan leapt up to help. As Vesna tried to turn the handle, his hand brushed her fingers, sending a jolt of shame through him. He recoiled as if he’d just been slapped across the face. The embarrassment of knowing that Vesna had read the article merged with the shame he felt at so tactlessly touching her hand, and he staggered backwards.
“I’m sorry, it’s that strange smell in the air. I felt dizzy for a moment.”
After momentarily struggling with the sash window, she managed to slide it up and secure it in place with brass t
abs on either side of the frame. A light breeze wafted into the large room, which was in the palace’s east wing.
“So the Queen doesn’t really care what they say about her.”
“Quite to the contrary. She may be a commoner by birth, but don’t think that her nobility isn’t real just because she acquired it by marriage. Anyone who can stand tall in the face of adversity is noble, and that’s how the Queen is. But this has really upset her. That story first ran in an Australian newspaper. Can you imagine it, lieutenant? The whole world is talking about whether or not our Queen is with child.”
“It’s a shameful state of affairs.”
“Yes, but only for the people who write rubbish like that. And for those people who jump at every opportunity to try to overthrow the King. It’s shameful that they try to find scapegoats for their own ineptitude, and take their anger out on the palace just because their lives haven’t turned out the way they wanted. They’ll won’t rest until the Queen is buried. I’m telling you, lieutenant, it truly is most shameful.”
Dragan eased himself into a chair near the window. Both his thoughts and movements were sluggish, and he felt like a clumsy giant who is vanquished by a child in a fairy tale. The breeze gently blowing through the half-open window ruffled Vesna’s hair, which was set aglow by the light streaming in, and Dragan suddenly found himself biting his lip as he gazed at her. He sat there in silence, gnawing at his lip until he tasted the saltiness of blood.
“Well, my dear Vesna, what’s done is done. I know it’s not my place to speak on the matter, but I wonder if it might not be better if the Queen were to take a trip abroad. Or, at the very least, the King and Queen could stop hosting guests at the palace for a while until everything settles down. Maybe then the Queen would produce an heir.”
The Peace Machine Page 11