The Tourmaline (A Princess of Roumania)

by Paul Park

  Laboriously and sluggishly, he ducked and turned away. Another hand now came to seize him by the shoulder. It moved with absurd slowness and he turned away from it. Burgos’s leg was at the level of a stool, but he stumbled over it and almost tripped. Then he pushed his foot under the man’s heel and lifted up, expecting him to jump away. There was all the time in the world. But he was as awkward as he looked. He lost his balance. Peter seized him by his waist, and twisted him, and flung him down.

  The Spaniard fell onto his back. Then there was time for him to roll away and get back up before Peter, after long deliberation, knelt down on his chest. He pressed the man’s head into the sand. Holding his left hand hidden behind his back, he grabbed hold of the man’s chin in his right hand and pressed his head back, and then released him, and then pressed him back, and then released him. And every time the back of the man’s head struck the dark surface of the sand, it was as if a new part of the story was shaken clear in Peter’s mind; the man grabbed and flailed and tried to twist under Peter’s weight. “De Graz!” shouted the crowd. “De Graz!” And de Graz paid no attention either to the crowd or to the struggles of the man, but instead he was listening to the stories in his head as they arranged themselves and joined themselves together. Slippery as expert wrestlers, they moved away as he approached them, but they were there, and he knew them after all, and Roderick of Burgos was beaten, and with him Peter Gross had also taken a fall, after fighting long and stubbornly and valiantly to keep upright:

  … and the little Revenge herself went down ’mid the island crags,

  To be lost evermore in the Main.

  * * *

  ANDROMEDA HAD CLIMBED into the grandstand to sit in Peter’s seat. She’d not waited for an invitation from Turkkan. Now she hunched her shoulders and slid down, and leaned back on the empty bench behind her. Her pale eyes were closed to slits, and her long boots were thrust under the railing.

  She was the first to sense the change in the man in front of her, even before Peter himself. When he released the Spaniard and let him up, he stood splay-footed in the sand while the people cheered. Naked, legs spread, he stared at her with eyes as unself-conscious as an animal’s. He didn’t blink. In the language of his body there was no shame or awkward diffidence, nothing that suggested her old friend Peter Gross, who had stepped into the pit a few minutes before. Instead in his tense body and proud face the part of her that was Prochenko recognized a comrade and well-worn adversary.

  No, it was not right to call him proud. That was the mark her envy put on him. He was too innocent to be conceited, too unaware of the world’s attention. He was a man of action and desire and one other thing, a glimmer of irrationality that was apparent in everything he did.

  Andromeda slouched in her seat. Though it was a hot, humid night, she felt gooseflesh on her skin. There was, however, work to be done, and so she turned to Aristophanes Turkkan, who was chuckling and clapping. “Hum? Did you ever see such a thing? Less than one second! And he was not in the best condition, I can tell you. Stuffed with food and drink. And for three days he has had the chains on his hands.”

  “Do you think there are some clothes he could borrow?”

  “Hum? Yes—I should think he’d have some clothes. I will give him my own coat. Tonight he is a guest in my house.”

  With her long fingernails Andromeda scratched her forearm underneath her French shirt-cuff. “Sir, I think we will refuse your offer. Mejid Pasha will be here. I think this man should cross the border.”

  “Mejid Pasha—bah! I am the presiding judge.”

  All this time Pieter de Graz had been staring at her. But now he turned and rubbed his face in the towel that the boy held out for him. Andromeda found herself admiring his muscled back and buttocks—she was worried for her friend. She knew that she and Sasha Prochenko were similarly made. Both had a layer of bravado and a layer of embarrassment around their hearts, as her father in Berkeley had once poetically described her. But Peter and de Graz were miles apart.

  “Even so,” she said.

  The crowd began to move around the betting circle once again. The bookmakers were collecting money and paying it out. Men came out to rake the sand for the next match. Aristophanes Turkkan got to his feet, yawned, stretched, scratched his chin. Then he pushed his way off the grandstand and stamped down the steps. Andromeda got up, too.

  She found him urinating beside the scaffold in the back. She waited until he was finished. “Please.”

  Buttoning himself, he turned to face her. They were in the shadow of the stand, away from the lights and the pressure of the crowd. They could hear the muted sounds of the barkers. “I don’t want to speak to you,” said Aristophanes Turkkan. “The Chevalier de Graz will be my guest. But you—with you Roumanians there is always trouble. So you must go away and then we will have peace again. I give you this, and you must not be asking for another gift. Hah!—and one thing more. I will not ask for witnesses from the bazaar.”

  “Sir, Mejid Pasha must not find us. The chevalier and I must leave this place. You can’t let Mejid Pasha overturn your wise decision.”

  The old man’s attention was now divided by an announcement from the umpire in the pit. But he turned back to look at her. “Why are you always mentioning this man? You must not insult me. This is justice and not victory. I am having some demands upon my time.”

  His expression of disdain was eloquent. And something else: Quite suddenly he was drunk. He swayed on his feet as he stared down at her. Andromeda imagined he was disgusted by Prochenko’s effeminacy. She stepped closer so he could smell the perfume on her skin and see the gold hair on her neck. “Sir, I’m grateful. I’m appealing to your love of justice. What’s the good of giving him his freedom if tomorrow he is locked away? My government will thank you. When he gets home you will receive an invitation from the Countess de Graz.”

  Aristophanes Turkkan reached out his big hand. He brushed the shoulder of her silk shirt. Then he seized hold of her earlobe as if to find his balance. He pulled her to him by the ear, and she could smell the liquor on his breath. And something else when he had belched, some hint of vomit. His hand was powerful. She did not resist him. “Do I care for the thanks of my enemies? I tell you I would never enter such a country of devils!” He shook her once and let his hand drop to her arm.

  You old goat, Andromeda thought, as he caressed the ball of her shoulder.

  He was a tall, big-chested man. He drew her close and whispered into her ear. “What do you want?”

  “Sir, the loan of your car. In four hours we could cross into Roumania.”

  “You are quite insane.” But he was still squeezing her shoulder.

  Now there were some more muffled announcements as a new match started. The Chevalier de Graz was walking among the scaffolding, looking for them. They saw him moving among the long corridors of supporting struts. Aristophanes Turkkan murmured in her ear. “Am I right in thinking you would take this motorcar and disappear in the dark night? That there is nothing real or sane about all this? I think we have been flying among ghosts and shadows, and so now we must come back to the ground. Does he look like a man of forty-five and more?”

  De Graz had not reassumed his jailbird overalls. Instead he’d found some new clothes from somewhere—perhaps from the umpires or his fellow wrestlers. He was dressed in pale tight trousers that left his shins bare, and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. His shirt was loose around his neck. Now he turned and saw them. He came striding down the tallest corridor under the scaffold, spattered and striped by the light that filtered through the planks. He stepped through the empty bottles and detritus until he stood beside them. Turkkan let go of Andromeda’s shoulder.

  She said, “You’d come with us. I am asking you to take us to the border.”

  Then came de Graz’s light, irritating, well-remembered voice, joining in as if he’d overheard. “You must have no concerns about the safety of your property. I give my word of honor in return for your generosity.�
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  This kind of idiotic nonsense had always been typical of de Graz. But because he spoke without a trace of irony or self-consciousness, it had an authenticity that was effective sometimes, though not at that moment. Turkkan stared at him.

  “My friend, you will not come to be my guest, me and my daughters?”

  “Sir, I long for my own country.”

  “Bah!” Turkkan was immediately angry. He made a theatrical gesture with his arm, which had the effect of throwing him off balance. Staggering forward, he smacked his forehead on a protruding wooden strut under the grandstand. “Cowards!” he shouted. “Assassins—great Jehovah!” and fell heavily on his back.

  Andromeda and de Graz knelt down. The old man wasn’t hurt. He was just stunned and drunk. He groaned as Andromeda slipped her hand between the buttons of his coat, searching for his pocketbook among the folds of his damp undershirt. But de Graz caught her wrist in his right hand. He squeezed until her muscles failed. At the same time he was staring at her, smiling. His eyes had always been a little dilated, she now remembered. And as always he’d forgotten the task at hand. It was going to be up to her to drag his stubborn carcass to Roumania.

  “Laissez-le,” he whispered.

  “What about the gun?”

  “Laissez-le.”

  But someone had already heard the old man’s cries. Around the corner of the grandstand came the chauffeur and the soldier and two other men. Andromeda recognized one of them, a tall, emaciated man. He’d taken charge of her last bet—fifty piastres on Roderick de Burgos.

  “Crud,” she murmured, a word her mother had been fond of in the house on Syndicate Road. The soldier had a gun in his hands, a strange, short, modern-looking rifle with a barrel of black steel.

  “Double-crud,” she murmured. She stood up, forced herself to smile. She spoke in Turkish, “Oh, I’m glad you’ve come. The cadi has hurt himself.”

  But the soldier wasn’t having any of that. The men behind him were jabbering and swearing, but he said nothing. Andromeda showed her empty hands, then clasped them together. “Bey efendiler—gentlemen, where is the hospital? Look what has happened! He was drinking, I suppose.”

  The idea was to get all of them inside a car. If de Graz would just get up and show himself also to be harmless, then … But it was not to be wished. He was still squatting over the body of Aristophanes Turkkan. She had scarcely finished speaking when he lifted the old man’s revolver and fired.

  No doubt if he had gotten a clear shot, he would have pierced the soldier through the brain. He was quite a marksman. But two things happened as he pulled the trigger. First, the old man started to bellow and seized him by the wrist. Second, the gun misfired when the hammer came down, and there was a flash of light. De Graz cuffed Turkkan with the ruined gun, then threw himself at the soldier as he now stood uncertain. In just a few seconds he had seized the rifle by its barrel and twisted it away, and slapped the soldier down with it as well as one of the other men—not the bookmaker, Andromeda saw, which was a pity. Tall, with a long neck and big Adam’s apple, he backed up beside the grandstand while de Graz took a few steps toward him.

  “Don’t be such an asshole,” Andromeda suggested uselessly. She ducked under the grandstand and started running down the corridor of scaffolding. De Graz came after her, and it wasn’t until they had come out the other side into the crowd at the entrance to the pit that they realized the bookmaker had followed them. De Graz had dropped the gun.

  One part of the crowd was now discovering the three unconscious men and raising the alarm. But this part on the other side of the main grandstand had not yet heard anything about it. The distance was not long, however, and Andromeda strode quickly toward the gate. Beyond the barricade she could see black-coated janissaries—the next obstacle. But the way was now blocked by people in the crowd who came forward to meet de Graz and shake his hands. Roderick de Burgos was there, all smiles. And leaning on his arm was Mehmet the Conqueror.

  “Friends!” he cried. And de Graz was such a preening fool, he actually stopped. “Thank you for the lending of your trousers,” he said in English.

  Another smaller wrestler now came forward to grasp his hand. And soon he was surrounded by a gang of men. Some were greased and oiled, naked from the waist up.

  “Please,” said Andromeda, “will you help us?” She gestured toward the uniformed policemen. There also, where the crowd was less, stood the sleek and shiny motorcar of Aristophanes Turkkan. Its long bonnet was silver, and its wheel guards were gold. There were several others cars beside it.

  But no one was paying any attention to her. They thronged around the Chevalier de Graz, slapping him on the back. And when they pushed all together through the gate, it was less out of a plan to hinder the police than out of the natural carelessness of crowds. Perhaps a hundred people swelled through the barricade.

  But no doubt Mejid Pasha was a cautious man, Andromeda thought, unwilling to risk a riot. He would stop them at the city gates, or on the road, or at the Roumanian frontier. Doubtless he’d sent messages by telegraph.

  With the others she came to Turkkan’s car. The chauffeur was standing beside the running board. Andromeda walked ahead of the crowd toward him. “Lütfen—please, your master sends his greetings. He asks if you can make two trips. First the Chevalier de Graz and me, along with one other. Next you will return for him.”

  “Benim emirlerim Eristofanis Bey’dan aliyorum—I take my orders from Mr. Turkkan.”

  He was no dope, Andromeda thought wistfully. And Mehmet the Conqueror now looked around. “Eee—so where is Turkkan? I thought he was going for a piss.”

  Shouts came from behind them. With obvious reluctance, the chauffeur left the car and walked back toward the wrestling pitch. The wrestlers moved to the next car in the line, a larger and shabbier vehicle that belonged to Mehmet the Conqueror. Andromeda thanked some dual version of God for this piece of luck, and because the passenger compartment was closed. What to do? The janissaries were sure to stop the first car on the road.

  The bookmaker was still with them, the tall man with the Adam’s apple who had followed them. “Vreau sa te ajut—Please, I want to help,” he murmured in her ear, reaching for her elbow as she pulled angrily away. It took her a moment to realize he was speaking in Roumanian. He made a quick, possessive gesture down the line of automobiles. “Acesta e al meu—This one’s mine.”

  “You go on ahead to the cadi’s house,” she said to Mehmet the Conqueror. “We’ll wait for him and follow.”

  The old wrestler shrugged, then sat down heavily in the front seat of his motorcar. Roderick de Burgos worked the crank and slid behind the wheel as the engine came to life. Three other men squeezed into the back compartment; through its small rear windows, the space seemed full of anonymous biceps and torsos, which was the effect Andromeda wanted. She hoped the police would let it run at least out of sight of the fairground before they forced it off the road.

  The car honked its horn and turned in a wide circle. Peter and Andromeda, still hidden in a crowd, came to the next conveyance in the line. This was even better, a windowless, closed van. Andromeda looked for the bookmaker. His dark hair was clipped close, and he wore wire-rimmed spectacles on his beak of a nose.

  “Daca vrei banii—If you want the money I owe you,” she murmured, “you’ll get us out of here.” They didn’t have more than a minute or so. She didn’t look back to the cadi’s motorcar. Every moment she expected to hear his strident voice.

  The van’s rear compartment opened from the back with double doors. Peter, uncomprehending, got in while the bookmaker started the machine. It made a weak, nasty noise, then caught and held.

  The way to Turkkan’s house led down Talat Pasa Caddesi to the gate, east along the main road of the town. Andromeda pointed south over the cobblestones into the warren of small lanes behind the Ucserefeli synagogue. “Is it true he is the Chevalier de Graz?” the bookmaker asked. “My father was with him at Nova Zagora. These Turkish
infidels, they never understand.”

  Confused now, the crowd had changed directions and was pulling back from them. Andromeda didn’t turn around. “You are a patriot. Take this as payment, and when you get to the bottom of the Eski Carsisi, then you must stop for one moment. Then go on to the Dobric road as quickly as you can. Then you drive straight north toward the border, as far as you can manage. If they stop you, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  She pressed into his palm the ring she’d bought in Alexandria, her last stake on this gamble. Then she got into the back of the van and held the doors closed as it bumped away toward the domed mass of the temple.

  Soon they were beyond the range of lanterns and torchlight. After only a few minutes the van stopped. Andromeda pulled Peter out, then rapped on the doors. The van turned at the corner.

  She pulled de Graz along the wall beside the garbage ditch. The lanes here were deserted, and it was filthy dark. This was a commercial district. In time they could see the lights of the railway yard. The old city wall had been torn down along this side. The station was a few miles out of town.

  They walked across the wide deserted yard among the boxcars on their sidings and the piles of lumber under canvas. They looked for the night watchman but saw no one. They crossed an embankment of crushed stone. The land was arid on the other side of the river. There were few trees, and they could see the moon. The air had lost the perfume of the town, and as Andromeda walked along the track, she was aware for the first time of a gunpowder smell from de Graz’s hands, burned from the misfire.

  “We’ve got to move,” she said. The stones and splintered ties were hard under her boots. De Graz was barefoot, but he didn’t complain.