But Lefèvre must have pondered the possibility. Hence the hidden book. And he had stepped into the bobbing caïque and pushed off without a word.
There were many things you could find to dislike about Lefèvre, but you couldn’t fault his bravery.
Meanwhile, everyone was shortly going to be invited to think that Yashim had killed him. It didn’t matter whether they believed it or not: just airing the possibility would be enough. Slander was raised only against the weak: nobody flung accusations at people whose power was secure. To be placed under suspicion showed a want of luck on Yashim’s part; and nobody in Istanbul, least of all in the palace, liked an unlucky man.
Yashim raised his cup and squinted at his friend through the steam, with a sudden upsurge of affection. Palewski seemed to feel his regard, because he looked up from the book and smiled.
“I can’t think what all the fuss is about,” he said. “I know this book. Petrus Gyllius,” Palewski explained, “was an antiquarian. Like your unfortunate friend, I suppose. Like him he was a Frenchman. Pierre Gilles. But in those days educated men wrote in Latin, so it’s Gyllius to you and me. He came out here in the reign of Suleyman the Magnificent. Mid-1500s, your days of glory.”
Palewski had risen from his seat and was bending down by his bookshelves. He pulled out a couple of tomes, flicked through them one after another, and finally ran his finger down a page.
“Here we are. Gyllius. That’s right. Comes out here in 1550 with the French ambassador. Stays on a few years, then all of a sudden he joins Suleyman on a campaign against the Persians. It’s an odd interlude, but he gets back the following year and then goes on to Rome. Writes his book, De Aedificio.”
“This book,” said Yashim morosely.
“Hmmm. I suppose you wouldn’t come by a copy all that easily. 1560—that’s the first edition.”
“There were others?”
“Oh, it’s been translated. English, French. I’ve got a French edition, though I can’t see it for the moment.”
“No,” Yashim said decisively. “There has to be something about this copy of the book that’s unique. If only I could read it.”
“Leave it with me, Yash. I’ll investigate. Quite enjoy it, actually.”
“Watch out for the little notes inside—don’t let them fall out.”
The book seemed to have functioned as a holdall, its pages stuffed with notes and folded papers.
“Why was he murdered so brutally? They hacked his sternum in two, and split his ribs apart.”
Palewski winced. “God! Like a Viking sacrifice.”
“A—what?”
“Viking, Yashim. You’ve heard of the Vikings, surely? The berserkers? Like your old regiment of the deli—people who turned mad when they went to war. These were the northern variety: red hair, beefy joints, terrific sailors. Exploded out of their fjords about twelve centuries ago. Ships carved like dragons. Primitive range of gods. Blood and thunder all summer: rape, murder, and pillage. Long poems about it to keep them happy all winter. Tough wasn’t the word. They scuffed Europe into what we call the Dark Ages. Most notable product, after widows: Russia.”
Yashim was leaning forward, listening intently. Now he shook his head. “What do you mean, Russia? Or is it a Polish joke?”
Palewski looked pained. “Not at all. The Vikings didn’t just sail across oceans. They used the Baltic rivers, too. Built ships which could sail on a heavy dew. But when they reached the Volga, they didn’t have to make their own water. Up the Volga, down the Dnieper. The Black Sea. Constantinople. Easy. They attacked a few times, too. Set up shop in Kiev—a good safe base for their raids down here, and it’s been the tradition ever since. In the end, of course, the Byzantines found it cheaper and easier to convert them to Orthodox Christianity—their leader took the name Yaroslav and thought he was the emperor’s little brother. But he was a Viking all the same.”
“And that’s the origin of Russia?”
“Broadly speaking, yes. The origins of Russian Orthodoxy. Once they’d got them friendly and half civilized, the Byzantines used them as an imperial guard, the Varangian guard. All six foot ten and Viking to their hairy toes. Just about the only thing that kept the Greeks safe in Constantinople.”
Yashim started. “The Varangian guard protected the Greeks? And used this barbaric style of execution?”
Palewski pulled a dubious face. “Well, I don’t know that they still used it then. Perhaps they’d dropped it, along with all their pagan gods. I don’t know. But here’s a curiosity for you, if you like. The spread eagle was the symbol of the Byzantine emperors. And after their fall, the Russians began to use it themselves. To demonstrate their kinship. You know, claims to the throne of Byzantium, Protectors of the Orthodox, all that.”
He paused and rubbed his hands.
“History lesson over. I don’t know that it’s been any good. Sun’s gone. Let’s have a drink.”
He picked his way past the table and opened the door.
“Marta!” he bellowed. “Vodka, glasses, and ice!”
Yashim smiled.
“I always shout these days,” Palewski remarked affably, from the door. “Saves me having to say please. Marta’s become rather a stickler for the niceties, I can’t think why. Anyway, the bell’s broken.”
46
IT was already dark when Yashim reached the landing stage at Karaköy. Istanbul across the Golden Horn looked strangely unfamiliar, the outline of its hills concealed in the darkness, false heights picked out by the lamps that burned on minarets and domes. For a moment it was possible to believe that the city had been replaced by mountains, their peaks and slopes dotted here and there by charcoal burners’ huts.
He closed his eyes, swaying slightly, and when he opened them again he had the impression of looking across a vast expanse of black water, toward the lamps of distant ships riding an invisible horizon that seemed high up and far away.
He took the first boat that offered itself, aware that a caïque was not a craft for a man who had drunk too much. Its thin, light hull was at best a flimsy wrapper to protect two men from the water, which lapped up almost to the vessel’s rim. He reclined automatically on the red cushion, shifting his weight to his left elbow to help trim the elegant dark hull. Now he could see the bulk of the city as he usually did, and the warm, low lamplight of the landing stage, where the caïques were moored.
The rower fixed a weak lantern to the prow and took up the sculls, pushing the caïque away from the landing stage with a practiced sweep of his arm. Like an arrow, the lacquered vessel hissed through the water. Yashim let his eyelids sink shut.
The air was warm. Across the water, murmurs and snatches of conversation drifted lazily from the landing stage. The dogs barking on Galata Point sounded close by. Yashim felt the rhythmic tug of the sculls; the water trickled on the hull beneath his head. The rower spoke, but not to him, and there was a faint lurch, a stillness, an absence of the familiar sound. A ripple caught the caïque and rolled it minutely. Yashim opened his eyes.
The caïque had stopped moving. Very dimly against the lantern light the rower could be seen, his shoulders still: he seemed to be resting on his sculls. The lights of the city traveled slowly around behind his head, like the lights of a fairy carousel. Yashim liked that explanation. For the moment, he could not think of another.
He blinked a few times. The silent boatman, he reasoned, was waiting for him to speak.
A light on the shore snuffed out. When it reappeared on the other side of the boatman’s black silhouette, it dawned on Yashim that Istanbul was not spinning; rather the caïque itself was turning gradually with the current.
“What’s the matter?” he finally said.
The rower didn’t move. Instead another voice close by replied: “Nothing is the matter, efendi. In a moment, if you likes, you continues with your journey. You are good man, I am sure.”
Yashim felt the hairs on his neck prickle. “What do you want?”
“Yes
, yes. A good man.” The caïque trembled slightly. In the dark, Yashim realized, another caïque had pulled alongside. “You do not like to have some things what belongs to other mans, no?”
The voice was coming from somewhere behind his head. Yashim was awake now, his mind working fast to construct a picture of his situation. He saw it, as it were, from above: if his rower was leaning on the oars, still spread above the water, the other caïque must have come in beside him, unless its oars were shipped. He had a feeling that the anonymous voice in the dark was too close for that. Which made it likely that the two boats were stern-to-stern: he had only to reach out and he would encounter—what? The speaker’s hand on the rim of his caïque. The knuckles bent over the gunwale.
“Whassat? What’ya talking about?” He hoped he sounded drunk.
“I talks about a book, mister. Is little. Black. Is not belong to you, you understand? But we make it all right. Give me the book, and go your ways.”
Yashim’s hand went to his chest. Lefèvre’s book was not there.
“Who are you?” he said thickly.
“Please. The book, only.”
The caïque gave a little lurch, and there was a metallic click. Something winked momentarily in the darkness.
“What worth your life, efendi?”
It would be very soon. There was little time.
Yashim sat up. He put his hand out for support and brushed against the man’s fingers where they clutched the rim of his caïque.
When one is getting into a caïque held firmly against a fixed landing stage or piling by the oarsman, it is possible to stand up for a few seconds.
In open water, when there is nothing to steady the boat and the oarsman is unprepared, you do not have seconds. You have maybe one.
Yashim stood up.
He stepped forward and stamped down, hard.
There was a crack, and the caïques dipped together. As the hull of his caïque flipped upward, Yashim took a step back and kicked himself off into the water.
He flicked the water out of his eyes and released his cloak, letting it float. He brushed the white turban from his head: it could catch the faint light, and he let it go. With his head above the water, he concentrated on staying afloat as silently as possible while three men floundered, cursing, close at hand. Yashim took the hem of his cloak in his teeth and paddled gently backward; the cloak would protect him and give him warning if someone tried to grab him in the dark.
He could hear the men more clearly now. One of them was cursing: perhaps the man whose hand he had trodden on. Another was lamenting the loss of his oars. Someone eventually told him to shut up.
With their caïques gone, the men would have to strike out for the shore. The Pera side was slightly closer; they would probably swim that way. Yashim went on quietly paddling until he heard them splashing, and then he released the cloak and turned onto his front. He swam breast stroke, not trying to fight the current that was bearing him slowly down toward the Bosphorus.
About twenty minutes later, a pair of barefooted chairmen enjoying a quiet smoke outside the New Mosque were surprised to be hailed by a man who squelched toward them out of the darkness. It was a shame the man was so wet, but he doubled their usual fare to the Fener baths. Business had been pretty quiet all evening.
47
THE curtains of muslin and silk brushed together, stirred like a breath by the night air. Sometimes he could see a tiny diadem of stars through a chink close up by the rail, and it came and went, came and went, the way people did when you were dying, looking in to observe the progress of death, to render a report on the invisible struggle; all that was left. The sultan wondered if this was the way all men died, alone, in doubt, troubled by memories.
He listened to the breath in the room, the woman’s breathing, the shush of the muslin against the silk. This would, of course, go on: the world would breathe without him. His own breath was less; it made no sound; he barely moved. Now that a great sleep was drawing close, he no longer needed sleep. The rehearsals were over.
Out on the water, something splashed. The Bosphorus was full of fish. He imagined himself gliding with them, their cool, metallic bodies holding level, the moonlight refracted through the surface of the water, cold and silvery, and the fish glinting like the stars.
He swam with them easily, borne along by the current and an effort that was minute, imperceptible. Hadn’t they always been there, too? Waiting for him—or perhaps not him, especially: for anyone who was ready to come, that night, any night.
He looked ahead; it seemed that his eye skimmed like a shearwater across the dark ripples, zigzagging between the headlands where the hill ridges dropped to the water’s edge.
On to where the straits opened out into the restless sea.
48
MARTA half turned with the tray in her hands and nudged the door open with a sway of her hip. Inside, the room was almost dark, and only a thin crack of light between the shutters showed that the morning was well advanced. Palewski’s room smelled strongly of candle wax and brandy, a smell that Marta associated with her employer and which she had never learned to properly dislike. The table, she knew, would be piled with books and glasses, so she set the tray down on the floorboards and went to open the shutters she had closed on Palewski and his studies the night before.
Daylight poured into the room, and the bedclothes stirred and groaned.
Marta tugged at the window frame and succeeded in opening it about two inches at the top. For a few moments she stood looking out into the yard. Suela, the Xanis’ daughter, was sweeping the ground with a little besom broom; Shpëtin, her brother, played silently in the dirt, rolling a ball to and fro. Marta sighed.
She cleared a space on the chair by the bed, moved the tray to it, and set about collecting the bottles and glasses, returning the candlesticks to the mantelpiece. She was very careful not to disturb any of the books scattered around the bed. The ambassador was a magnificent scholar, after all. Night after night he wearied himself looking into those books of his, and she knew better than to let her carelessness spoil his work. What made his work all the harder was that he possessed so many books, more than anyone had ever seen in their life, so that finding the thing he needed was a real chore.
“A Greek came round earlier,” she said, passing a cup of tea to the hand which had emerged from beneath the bedclothes. Marta, who was Greek herself, invested the word with powerful contempt. “I told him that you did not admit callers, but he could write and make an appointment.”
Palewski swam up from the duvet and sipped weakly on his tea. “Very good,” he mumbled. “Probably some sort of swindle.”
Marta nodded. That was it, exactly. The man had looked like a swindler.
“The water is weak again today,” she said.
“Tea’s all right, though.” Palewski put out his cup, and she filled it from the pot. “Thank you, Marta. I can manage now.”
Marta curtsied. Inwardly, she could not resist a smile. The ambassador was a clever man, to be sure; but to manage—no. Beyond his books he was simply a big child.
“Thank you, sir,” she said.
“Thank you, Marta.”
When Marta had gone, Palewski leaned from the bed and groped around on the floor. One of Lefèvre’s handwritten notes had fluttered out of the book as he lay reading the night before. He had read it twice before he understood what it was; then he had very quickly snuffed out the candles and rolled up in bed.
Now he opened the book again, and in the cooler light of day he reread the paper.
Serp. Column. Mehmet II hurled mace—broke off one jaw. Patriarch of H.S. aghast. “This ancient and illustrious talisman was erected here for the purpose of driving serpents from Constantinople and, in the event of its destruction, it is most probable that the city will be destroyed by an invasion of serpents.” Sultan desists. Heads broken off c. 1700; Polish noble. ???query.
The word serpents was underlined.
Palewski’s legs
stirred uneasily beneath the featherbed.
49
“PERMISSION to enter?” Yashim stood at the gates, peering around at the children in the yard. The little girl—what was her name?—looked up and gave him a brief smile, but Shpëtin tucked his chin into his chest and stared sullenly at the ground.
“Don’t shoot—it’s only me,” Yashim said brightly as he crossed the yard.
He found Palewski in bed, balancing a cup of tea on his knees.
“I see your sentry’s been withdrawn,” he said.
“What? You mean the little boy. Well, I don’t know. His father’s gone off somewhere without telling and everyone’s feeling the pinch. Mrs. Xani is gloomy enough at the best of times, but it’s Marta I worry about. Again. She’s quite upset for the little boy.”
Yashim nodded. “Children like a routine,” he said.
“Hmmm. They’d been going out together recently, Xani and his boy. A sort of apprenticeship. Then the boy came back rather late one evening, on his own.”
Yashim nodded. Marta, the little boy: it was obviously a difficult morning for Palewski. He wanted to talk about Lefèvre’s book.
“I was attacked last night,” he said.
“My dear fellow!” The ambassador looked shocked. “The whole place is going to the dogs.”
Yashim told him about the caïques and his unexpected dip. “They wanted that book.”
“My God! You were lucky. Have a look at this.”
He passed across the copy of Gyllius. On the back page, stamped in green ink, was an oval containing the words in Greek: “Dmitri Goulandris, Bookseller.”
The Snake Stone Page 12