by Paul Park
“This I heard. This woman does not lie to me.”
“No lies, but it was dark. And you said the boys shot at them when they were coming over the wall.”
“Fool—he has the truth injection, but not you. Why? You must ask him!”
The truth injection, as they called it, was having some side effects. Peter found tears on his face. The leather bonds around his wrists were slick with sweat. In his mind he recited the poem once more to its ending, which he flubbed again. His audience listened in shocked silence and then started to argue one more time. “Why must you defend him? Turkkan—are you a traitor to us? I am glad he must be punished like a criminal for Jacob Golcuk’s sake. You don’t believe what he has said? I think you are not sane or drunk. This punishment is too good in Trebizond. But to you he is a hero.”
Turkkan’s voice: “You do not understand. But I gave him my promise in those days. Not with my lips, but in my head. I saw him defeat our champion and exchange gifts like Glaucus and Diomed. To remember is to be a man. Giants walked among us.…”
* * *
LATER WHEN HE tried to piece together his broken experience, these fragments were all that Peter could remember of this conversation. The whole day was lost to him except for these small pieces. Later he imagined he’d lost consciousness again, because unlike the captain of the Revenge, he was unable to fight to the end.
When he awoke, he was in darkness. But he was in a different place, a small room that was cooler and less stuffy, a comfortable room, he could tell without looking, and he was lying on a comfortable bed. He moved, tried to sit up, and found his wrists were shackled together with a two-foot length of chain, and his feet also.
The chain clinked when he moved. The links were small and smooth, and he could not get his fingers into them. With all his strength he tried to pull his hands apart. But his left hand followed his right, because it was still weaker.
A cool draft came from somewhere. The mattress lay on the floor and he sat cross-legged on it, which the chains permitted. His headache had returned, and when he stroked the back of his head, he found an egg-shaped bruise behind one ear. The inside of his arm was sore.
What had happened to him? Fragments of the day came back to him in no particular order. He supposed he was in some kind of holding cell, though it was incomparably nicer than anything he’d seen before in any Turkish prison. It didn’t stink of urine or bat shit. And he was alone.
Perhaps this was a cell for condemned prisoners. What had Mejid Pasha said? He was to be transported to a penal colony in Trebizond, which was—Peter happened to know—in eastern Anatolia along the coast. None of that sounded very good, though maybe there’d be some way to escape. After all, he was the Chevalier de Graz, or he supposed he was. No cage could hold him, he supposed.
Besides, it was impossible to despair completely in this room, where the air was scented with some trace of perfume. This was Turkkan’s doing—maybe Turkkan had prevailed after all. And even if he hadn’t, Peter could imagine still convincing him that this was all nonsense—he was who he was, not some middle-aged war criminal. Never had Peter felt less like the Chevalier de Graz than he did at that moment.
In retrospect it had been a truly terrible idea even to mention de Graz’s name in the land of his enemies. Or at least without learning more about him. But it was a mistake that could be rectified even now. Like the Aegyptians, these Turks were rational people. Roumanian conjuring, demonic possession—it was obvious they found these explanations only half-convincing.
Now he was accustomed to the darkness. He saw the dimensions of the room, saw the outline of the furniture. The doorway was in front of him, and he saw a light burning vaguely behind a gauze curtain that bellied out toward him. He could hear a sound of whispering from an adjoining room. Then stifled laughter, and a shadow slipped inside the door.
So he was in a private home. That much was obvious. Peter felt a spasm of relief; he sat cross-legged, watching the shadow. First it stood against the wall. Then it ventured a little toward him without making a sound. There must have been a carpet on the floor. The shadow made a sudden movement—Peter already had decided her sex even before he smelled the fragrance that accompanied her as she approached. It was rosewater and glycerine, which had also been his mother’s favorite cologne.
God, it was a relief just to feel her with him in the room! In this country he had not seen many women. Usually they kept at home. In the markets you could see old women and servants, and sometimes young girls going to school. But for the time he’d been here, Peter had not spoken to a woman his own age. “Who are you?” he asked. “Please, where am I?”
Again there were stifled giggles and another shadow slipped into the room. He didn’t move and they came closer, whispering to each other. Careful to keep distance, they stood on opposite sides of the bed while Peter filled his nose and lungs with their fragrances. The second girl was wearing a citrus smell. It was bitter and astringent, unlike the cloying rosewater.
“Please,” said Peter. But then he heard a new sound of heavy footsteps and saw a new light. The curtain was pulled back. Aristophanes Turkkan stood in the doorway with a lamp in his hand, while at the same time the girls fled through the opposite door. As the lamplight chased them, Peter was aware of their long dresses and thick braids before they disappeared.
“Shoo!” Turkkan said. “Shoo away! Ah, my gazelles’ horns,” he said as he held up the lamp. “They are my daughters—see? They would tell if you’re awake.”
“I’m awake.”
“And not feeling good or well, is it not so? Let me help you.”
He came into the room, carrying his lamp. He was dressed in a long, embroidered, linen gown. On his feet were leather boots. “Come, my friend. You are in the house of Aristophanes Turkkan!”
He bent down to peer into Peter’s face. “For one night only. But do not think any thoughts. I am an officer of the courts and there are soldiers here. Come,” he said. “I have let you sleep as long as I can, but supper is ready. Let me help you.”
The chain ran taut as Peter reached out his right hand. Turkkan guffawed. “You must not offer me that kind of food again. A tattoo! What an idiotic notion!”
He brought Peter to his feet. And when he swayed and almost fell, Turkkan put his big arm around him. “Come,” he said. “Come here.”
He led him out of the dark room and into a gallery of rose-colored stone or stucco, hung with painted miniatures along the inner wall. Two feet thick at least, the outer wall was pierced with unglazed windows that stretched from floor to ceiling but were only a few inches wide. After a few steps Turkkan’s solicitude had changed into impatience; he clamped Peter by the neck and hurried him along so quickly that it was as if a jerky, silent film of courtyard life were being shown along the left-hand wall, framed by the slitted windows. The yard was full of soldiers lighting fires and stretching out their tents. Savory smoke blew into the gallery and into the red sky. It was the dinner hour.
The chain between Peter’s ankles slapped along the tiles. He had to take mincing little steps. “Come,” said Aristophanes Turkkan. “You see I do not lie to you—this house is full of soldiers. They will shoot you if I give the word. I myself will shoot you.” He gave Peter’s neck a friendly squeeze.
“Where am I?”
“You are in my house! My personal house—for one night you are my guest. I am not afraid of you. Tomorrow you are off to Trebizond with the other prisoners and your name will be Peter Gross. Tonight you will want nothing, I promise you!”
“But my name is Peter Gross,” Peter murmured. Now that he thought about it, he had no idea how to undo the damage he had caused by taking a false name, or even if it made sense to try. Peter Gross, apparently, had been convicted of the murder underneath the bridge.
They had reached the end of the long gallery. Now they came through several small antechambers and into a larger room that was full of rich and delicious smells. There were windows above Peter�
��s head along the walls, and from the vault hung a row of slow fans. Below them in the center of the floor, a low table was surrounded by pillows, and on it burned a dim electric light. The bulb was covered with a perforated shade so that the light made a pattern on the surface of the table. It shone unevenly on bottles and covered dishes. The carpet was soft under Peter’s bare feet.
Besides, it was de Graz that Turkkan wanted to entertain, de Graz he had invited into his house. Peter Gross would have been in Trebizond by now. So already he was ahead; when he sat, pressed into a cushion by Turkkan’s strong hand, the small-linked chain between his wrists coiled into his lap, and he looked down.
For the first time he noticed the clothes he was wearing, a pumpkin-colored pair of pajamas. He had not seen them in the Eski Seray, where even the condemned prisoners had been dressed in their own clothes. But he assumed the pajamas were some kind of prison uniform—his spirits, which had been restored by the girls’ perfume and the pungent food, now wavered. The chain slipped and coiled in his lap. It dragged on the cushions as he crossed his legs.
But he couldn’t stay miserable when he was so hungry. Who knew what the future kept for him? He’d given up predicting a long time ago. In the meantime savory smells came from the dishes, made of rose-colored porcelain. Aristophanes Turkkan was lifting the covers and sniffing at the steam, though Peter noticed there was only one plate, only one knife and fork. “Eat, my friend!” Turkkan said. “Eat! Here there is honey lamb, rice with dried grapes and almonds, yes, but first—hot towels!” These he uncovered from a large pot, and as he wiped his own red face and hands he recited a short prayer in a language Peter didn’t recognize. Perhaps it was Hebrew.
“Let me serve you with my hands, for old sakes!”
Peter ate and drank. At first he took small bites. The food was spicy, and the more he ate, the more ravenous he became. He ate until his cheeks ached from chewing, and the cadi served him delightedly. The chain clinked as Peter moved his hands.
The old man sat back in the pillows. When Peter lifted up his long spoon to start on a dish of yoghurt and cinnamon, Turkkan spoke. “Tell me, my friend. Now you must tell me the truth. Not for that damned drug, but its own sake. Is this some fantasy of darkness, that you appear before me? Are you a devil, as they say? Or have you come again from the fountain of youth? Tell me what has washed away your memory, so you remember nothing of these things. Tell me how we must explain this at long last?”
How could he explain? Peter wiped his lips. Forget Turkkan—how could he explain this even to himself? De Graz lived inside of him. Sometimes Peter kept him quiet and contained. Sometimes he prowled free. Any time, Peter supposed, when instinct might take over, which was another reason not to trust yourself.
Peter’s father sometimes quoted an old radio show: “What evil lurks in the heart of men?” Reassured now by the memory, Peter smiled. He put down his cup and washed his fingers in a glass bowl. He dried his hands on a linen towel. Then he found himself staring at a row of cabinets that lined one side of the room. Glass-fronted, they were full of bones.
“You laugh at me!” Turkkan cried, suddenly delighted, laughing, too. “Bah, it is ridiculous. Bah, we are men of action, you and I. These mysteries are not for us. Old graybeards talking.”
Now his eyes followed Peter’s eyes. “I see you looking at my collection. Please, it is the interest of an old man. You also are interested in archaeological remains?”
Peter didn’t answer, and Turkkan leapt up. “Let me show you the pride of my collection! Of course they want to take it away and bury it. What ignorance—but I am an officer of the courts! Let them try!”
Now he had opened one of the glass cabinets and lit a lamp. Peter came to join him, and found himself looking at many rows of fossilized bones. Some were small, some large. All were carefully labeled in delicate handwriting, drawn in black ink upon the bones themselves.
“My daughters help me,” Turkkan said proudly. “You see they have been educated in taxonomy abroad. Let me show you this new thing, of which it is a question of a battle in the courts.”
They squatted down, and Peter found himself peering at a single, long, enormous tibia, stretching the width of two cabinets. “We have legends in this country,” Turkkan continued. “Graybearded scholars come and look and say this is the leg of Goliath the Philistine. Others scratch their beards and say it is the leg of Hector of Troy. You see they have a scholarly difference of opinion! All these bones, it is the same. They are heroes or giants, and must be taken away and buried with honor—what a loss to science! When in fact they are not human bones at all. Always the past is like a mirror and we see ourselves. I ask you, is it possible Hector of Troy was seven meters tall?”
“‘Giants walked among us,’” Peter quoted.
“Ha! I see you make a joke. But I wish you to imagine seven meters—what about his wife, the lady Andromache? Was she also seven meters, or else six and a half? I would like to have seen that! Besides, we have found much armor in the ruins of Troy. Many plates and dishes—no, it is ridiculous. These bones are not found in those places. They are deep, deep, deep inside the earth where they have turned to stone. But sometimes the earth surrenders them. I tell you if we could only find a skull. But it is frustrating! The skulls break and shatter, because the bones are thin.”
Peter found himself distracted by a happy memory. Several times his parents had taken him to the Museum of Natural History in New York. “The skulls are hard to find,” he said.
“Yes, of course. I see you are a sensible man! Is it not obvious? These are animal remains, but animals like we have never seen. The little elephant, the feeble mammoth—it is not like that. Come, my daughters have made sketches. This is of a find near Trebizond. Perhaps when you are digging in the mine, you will find something like this and send for me. Ha—another joke! No, my friend—I am sorry to have hurt you. I am an old fool.”
The drawings were exquisite, huge beasts in red pencil and watercolor, their skeletons superimposed in hard black ink. They were dinosaurs, obviously, but none he recognized—no triceratops, no stegosaurus, no tyrannosaurus rex. He recognized none of the names that were so carefully printed, in Roman letters, under their enormous feet. But the drawings were so beautiful. “Your daughters, they are very skilled,” he said.
But he was thinking about the bones in the natural history museum and about his parents. Without warning he had tears in his eyes. He reached up to wipe them away and the chains clinked. “No, my friend,” continued Aristophanes Turkkan. “You must not hide these things. It is a man who lets his tears fall. Come with me!” And he led Peter to a side table where there were bottles and glasses laid out.
“I think we will not sleep tonight,” said the old man as he lit a candle. Then he unstoppered a bottle and poured out a stream of green liquid into two long-stemmed glasses. “This is the green serpent that has coiled inside my heart. But if you are a man, you do not care. See how it glows!”
Settled in the delicate spheres under the candlelight, the liquor shone. “Warm it in your hands, you see. Wash your breath with it. It is absinthe from your country. Always from your country. Everything that is not as it appears, I think it is from your country. Everything that is a mystery. Men whose faces have not changed for twenty-five years. In this fight between barbarians and honest men, I think you have all the weapons, all the powers. It is why Mejid Pasha is afraid of you.”
Peter had managed to interrupt his tears. But his voice still felt lumpy and uncertain. Finally he blurted out, “Is it true what he said? Did the Chevalier de Graz carry a cow across a battlefield, rescue a cow when there were people dying?”
“It was a calf, I think. No man alive could carry a cow such a distance, not even the Chevalier de Graz.”
Turkkan had picked up one of the glasses. Warming it between his hands, he made the liquor turn in a small whirlpool before offering it to Peter—“I have been a judge for a long time in the courts of this city. Certainly ther
e is a difference between the truth and a lie. But in the house of what is true, there are many chambers, and some are sealed from the others. Today you have taken their truth serum, and I apologize for that. That is something for criminals, which you are. But you are also a man and a champion, and so I offer you this other serum for the truth. Smell! It is from Targu Mures!”
Peter took the glass. The liquor in it was intolerably sweet.
“It is a taste to hide the wormwood,” Turkkan admitted, smelling his own glass. “I beg you to examine the stone bones of these creatures and examine my daughters’ sketches while I tell you another story which is also true because I saw these things myself with my own eyes. I am right to think you don’t remember—this was before the Peace of Havsa, so we were still at war. But all alone a man crossed through the line, unarmed, without speaking our language, already famous to us because of the wrongs he had done to us at Nova Zagora and other places. I tell you we might have been justified in shooting him where he stood, or striking his head from his shoulders and sending it to Schenck von Schenck. I tell you arguments were made. This man acted as nothing, and then asked if it was true as he had heard, that every year there was a wrestling competition in Adrianopole, the yagli-gures festival on Sarayici island—oiled wrestling, we call it. It is the most important competition of our national sport. And this man stood there, cold as anything; I tell you he was not a giant but an ordinary man. Smaller than myself. He was no great reptile as you see in my daughters’ drawing. And so we laughed to think that he would fight against Vassilye the Greek and Mehmet the Conqueror, who had won the open competition for three successive years—the greatest champion of the age, we thought. And so the colonel said, why kill this man? Why take him prisoner? Mehmet the Conqueror will kill him with more glory to us, and we would put his bones into a bag and send them back to Frederick Schenck von Schenck, whose soldiers were pressing us so fiercely—if we’d only known how weak they were, and how they’d brought every starving boy onto the line to press us, while we held many back because of the caution and stupidity of our generals, who were not used to fighting a madman like von Schenck when he was keeping nothing in reserve—it doesn’t matter. This boy was not yet twenty and he stood there with his hands behind his back, a look of stupid pride on his face as we all thought.”