The Snake Stone

by Jason Goodwin

  He descended the slope cautiously, keeping his feet on the ridges. Then he squatted over the gap and quietly lifted the overlying tile. He raised the next one a little, to let it slide out, and set it down gingerly beside him. He slid his fingers into the gap and the underlying tile came away with a dry rasp. The battens were about eighteen inches apart.

  High overhead a door opened and he heard a woman’s voice; it was suppressed but full of anger. A man answered brusquely, from along the balcony; the door slammed shut and the man came heavily down the staircase. On the first-floor landing he turned unsteadily. Yashim saw him put his hand on the balustrade and lean forward, as if he were peering into the dark; then he took a step backward, straightened up, and sighed. Yashim relaxed; after a few moments the man adjusted himself and lurched back to the staircase. He went down into the courtyard and out into the alley beyond.

  Yashim put his weight on the battens and eased himself into the hole in the roof. At the last moment, as he was trying to hold his position, he lost his grip and slithered roughly between the battens, falling several feet onto the floor below.

  He stood up, rubbing his knee. He nudged a table and his fingers crawled over it until they encountered an oil lamp. Yashim picked it up and shook it gently. On a ledge by the door he found a box of matches, but the hiss of the match igniting frightened him, as though it identified his position: he swung round with the match above his head until it burned his fingers. He put the lamp on the table, removed the mantle, and struck another match to the wick. When the blue flame began to spread he dropped the mantle back and trimmed the wick. A dim glow illuminated the room.

  He expected to see a couch at the back of the room: on his first visit, in the candlelight, it had been impossible to see the farther wall. Now he could see that another room, maybe a set of rooms, lay beyond a door in the far corner. It occurred to him that Baradossa might still be there asleep, in spite of his knocking; in spite of the noise he had made coming through the roof.

  The book was lying on the table, exactly where it had been before. Yashim opened it with his free hand and flicked the pages until he found what he was looking for.

  Xani. 600 piastres. There were five entries below, with dates, recording the monthly receipt of forty piastres. At the bottom, in red ink: 200 French francs: Paid In Full.

  Yashim raised his head and listened. He heard voices overhead, and then—incongruously—the tramp of feet on stone; sounds from the courtyard were being filtered through the hole in the roof. A man spoke, close by. Someone knocked on the door; it sounded as if they were using the head of a stick.

  Yashim listened intently. There were several voices outside, in the courtyard: anyone roused to look down over the balconies from one of the overhead apartments would see the light shining through the hole he’d made in the roof. Yet he felt a great reluctance to put out the lamp.

  There was another possibility. He went over to the inner door and put his ear to it. There was no sound. He turned the handle slowly, pushed back the door, and stepped inside.

  Baradossa was at home.

  He was sitting bolt upright on the floor, arms raised in front of him, staring at Yashim. What had been his chest was nothing but a bloody mess. Yashim had seen many corpses in his time, but what unnerved him were the teeth. They seemed to be starting from his face, as if they had grown.

  The lamp slipped through Yashim’s fingers. He clutched at it. The burning mantle scorched his hand and separated from the lamp, which shattered on the ground. With a sullen whump! the oil on the floor ignited. Yashim jumped back. The old moneylender leered at him from the floor.

  Yashim raced to the front door and flung the bolts.

  “Yangin-var!” he roared. “Fire! Fire!”

  Yashim’s natural instincts were to help douse a fire, but not this time. A group of men outside started back in astonishment as Yashim barreled past. One, more quick-witted than the rest, made a lunge for his cloak; Yashim twitched it away and pelted for the street, not attempting to look round.

  He ran without stopping until he reached the Fener, his own district. His heart was pounding.

  The Jew had been killed that afternoon; no later. In rigor, Baradossa’s mutilated body had slowly stiffened, raising itself from the floor on which it lay; the tendons in the arms had pulled tight. Those artificial teeth had sprung open and slipped forward in the dead man’s mouth, a horrifying chaplet of wire and bone: the grin hadn’t been meant for him.

  Whoever killed him had escaped the way Yashim had gone in: through the roof, leaving the door locked from the inside.

  And a book on the table.

  A book that demonstrated, beyond all doubt, that Xani had had a friend. Someone who had discharged his debt in good French silver. Two hundred francs.

  Yashim’s thoughts turned to a Frenchman, now dead, whose wife was asleep in Widow Matalya’s apartment.

  He went in quietly through the front door, into the silent house.

  64

  YASHIM slept badly. In his dreams he saw Baradossa’s livid face, and the teeth protruding; then the dead man’s eyes turned dark and as the flames rose he saw it wasn’t Baradossa but the brazen serpent that was staring at him in all the terror of victory. And Lefèvre was there, cramming his money into the serpent’s maw.

  When he woke up, it was with a nagging doubt in his mind. He lit a lamp and took out Gyllius’s book, in French translation.

  All other cities have their periods of government, he read, and are subject to the decays of time. Constantinople alone seems to claim a kind of immortality and will be a city as long as humanity shall live either to inhabit or rebuild it.

  He turned the page. Gyllius described the layout of the city, and its walls, discussing Aya Sofia in detail, with reference to ancient sources. There were a few remarks about the Hippodrome and the Serpent Column: Yashim made a penciled note beside them, intending to check against Lefèvre’s copy.

  He could feel his concentration slipping. First someone had surreptitiously searched his flat, leaving nothing more than a few scattered grains of rice; next time they had smashed it apart. He thought of some of his books with a pang of anxiety. For Yashim regret was an emotion that held nothing but danger, and he had long ago succeeded in achieving a distance from it. But books were the glory of Ottoman art, and he had some he treasured. He flicked through Gyllius’s book, and opened it at random.

  The Cistern remains. Through the inhabitants’ carelessness and contempt for everything that is curious it was never discovered, except by me, who was a stranger among them, after a long and diligent search for it. The whole area was built over, which made it less suspected that there was a cistern there. By chance I went into a house where there was a way down to it and went aboard a little skiff. I discovered it after the master of the house lit some torches and rowed me here and there across through the pillars…

  He read the passage again, wondering what it could mean. Never discovered, except by me. Typical scholars. What of the man whose house stood over the cistern—had he not discovered it? With a skiff, no less! Yashim smiled to himself; scholars were all the same, at all times, in all lands.

  He was very intent upon catching his fish, with which the Cistern abounds, and speared some of them by the light of the torches.

  Yashim blinked. An underground lake, full of fish? He wondered how the fish would taste: pale, perhaps blind, their flesh would be insipid. More likely, Gyllius had simply made the whole thing up.

  But the image stuck with him as he lay there in the dark, trying to sleep, of a man rowing under Istanbul in a little boat, spearing fish by torchlight.

  65

  WIDOW Matalya bobbed from foot to foot. She didn’t know what to suggest: the Frankish lady had woken up hours before, but whenever she looked in she said nothing, simply stared at her with sad eyes. Eventually Widow Matalya brought her something to eat, and a glass of tea.

  The girl sat up in bed. “Chai,” she said shyly.


  Widow Matalya nodded encouragingly. She pointed to the plates one by one. “Bread. Cheese. Olives. Eat up,” she added. “It’s good.” She patted her stomach. Then, quite unconsciously, she stroked the girl’s cheek. “I know how it is.”

  The Frankish woman gave her a small smile. Widow Matalya sat down on the bed, encouraged.

  “Even for me, it was a shock. We have them and then we lose them. Why should we be surprised? The men, always racing to and fro—one day they’re just little boys, and the next—well, they’re gone. But at least—” She checked herself, for once. At least they leave something behind, she had been going to say. But she couldn’t presume. She took the little white hand in hers and patted it. Then she picked up an olive and popped it into the girl’s mouth.

  The woman said something. Widow Matalya smiled and nodded. “That’s right. There’ll be a lot of crying to be done, and you could do with building up your strength.” She carefully broke a bit of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. Frank she might be, but she was like everyone else, like a little bird. A pretty little bird.

  “This is good bread. The olives are good,” she said kindly. “Learn to smile again! You’re barely twenty-five, I’d say, and who knows what Frankish gentleman wouldn’t jump to that smile?” She put out a hand and stroked the girl’s hair. “And you’ve got lovely hair, I’ll say that for you. You’re a real peach.”

  The girl put her hand over the old woman’s and held it there, pressed against her hair, with her eyes shut.

  “She’ll live,” Widow Matalya later told Yashim. “But it’s a cruel shame, efendi. She is very far away from her own people. The only word she knows is chai. Not that she asks, she’s very sweet. But can you—can you talk to her?”

  He met her in the yard at the back of the house: Widow Matalya had thought it somehow more proper. Amélie was sitting on the stump of an old column, under the shade of a fig tree, wearing a new blouse and the skirt she had worn the day before. Her thick curls were held up in a ribbon, and her neck was bare. Even though her eyes were red, Yashim thought she looked very lovely.

  “Madame Lefèvre,” he began. “I am—I am so sorry.”

  She cast her eyes to the ground. “I had not expected…” She trailed off. Then she looked up, tilting her chin. “You have been very kind, monsieur.”

  Yashim looked away. He rubbed a fig leaf between his fingers. “I meant to tell you straightaway. And did not know how.”

  He heard her breathe. “Please tell me—how it happened.”

  He told her. He spoke about his Thursday dinner, the first time they had met, making it sound as if they had become friends. He told her about the way Lefèvre had reappeared, afraid, and the way he had sought his help, with the story of the ship, and the caïque, leaving out little.

  “You sent him to his death,” she said, trembling.

  Yashim inclined his head. “I had no idea,” he said. “It seems to me now—I think he went to meet someone. Before he left.”

  Her eyes searched his face. “It would be like him,” she said. “Forgive me, efendi. You did your best.”

  Yashim thought that nothing she could have said would have made him feel so small.

  “I shall take you to the embassy,” he said.

  “The embassy,” she repeated dully.

  “Your people, madame,” he said. “They can take care of you.”

  She bent down to slide her finger between the leather and her stockinged foot as if there were something there. She straightened up. She let slip the ribbon from her hair and with a shake of her head let it fall in a cascade over her shoulders.

  “I am sorry, Monsieur Yashim. I am Amélie Lefèvre. Nobody—least of all an embassy—takes care of me.”

  66

  THE man with a knife moved easily through the city. Its blade was very bright and very sharp, and it hung openly from his belt without a scabbard.

  Sultanahmet. Bayezit. It was the hour of prayer: from the minarets overhead the muezzins were calling the faithful to their devotions. The man didn’t hear them. He didn’t notice the crowds, streaming toward the mosques. He skipped the turning toward Bayezit and carried on at a loping run toward the third hill. The crowds meant nothing to him: they could not impede him as he moved across the city, always at the same pace, making the familiar turns.

  Now Bayezit was behind him.

  The man with a knife knew this, although his eye was fixed on darkness. This, he thought, would be his single contact today with the people who sifted and surged through the city streets.

  He would fulfill his errand, and the crowd would still move in its appointed rhythm. The city’s appetite would remain unchanged.

  It would pray, and wash, and drink, and eat, because it was bigger than a single man. Like a scoop of water taken from a tank, the fate of one man would make no difference to the people of Istanbul: they would close over his head like water.

  And the secrets would be preserved.

  Fener. At Fener he moved from the darkness into the light.

  Still the people would not bother him. He had an errand to fulfill.

  He followed the instructions. He located the door, which was unlocked. He did not think the door would be locked.

  He went in quietly: so quietly he could easily hear the murmur of an old woman talking to herself.

  He found the stairs, and they were dark and enclosed. They suited him.

  At the top of the stairs there would be another door.

  And the weight of the dagger that he drew from his belt felt comfortable in his hand.

  67

  YASHIM flopped down into the old armchair in Palewski’s drawing room. The ambassador sat on a stool, cradling his violin. Now and then he plucked one of the strings and fiddled with the pegs.

  “Doesn’t like the heat,” he explained. “Or neglect, for that matter. Gone very dry.” He picked at the four strings.

  Yashim grunted. “Lefèvre was paying Xani off.”

  “Very decent of him.”

  “I imagine he had an ulterior motive.”

  Palewski bent over his fiddle and started tuning a peg.

  “The thought occurred to me. Lefèvre could have sidled up to Xani and promised him a fortune to find out if the serpents’ heads were really here. But Xani hasn’t been in the house for weeks.”

  “The fortune, as you call it, was already paid. Lefèvre wouldn’t have necessarily known that Xani wasn’t around here much. But now Lefèvre’s dead—and Xani has disappeared.”

  “Do you think he got scared?”

  Yashim ignored the question. “Have you checked that the serpents’ heads are still here?”

  Palewski looked up at the ceiling. “Do you know, Yashim, the one treasure I possess outright? That’s actually mine?” He picked up the bow, leaned forward on his stool, and tapped the door of the sideboard. The door swung open without a sound. Behind it stood a bottle. It was squat and green and had a wax cap. “My father bought a whole case the year I was born,” Palewski said mistily. “Martell. The last bottle.”

  Yashim sighed. “The heads, Palewski.”

  “Funny you mention it. I moved them from the armoire just yesterday. Terribly heavy. Put them under my bed.”

  “Good idea,” Yashim said.

  “I thought so. On the other hand,” Palewski added cheerfully, “I seem to have acquired a guardian angel. Someone who doesn’t want me to lose them. Kills Lefèvre. Kills a moldy old bookseller he dealt with. Kills the Jew, who could connect Lefèvre with Xani. Xani disappears. Maybe he’s dead, too. And so the trail goes cold. I keep the heads.”

  He closed the sideboard with the tip of his bow.

  Yashim rolled his eyes. “Maybe you’re the killer, Palewski. You have the most obvious motive.”

  “Motive, yes.” Palewski smiled and laid the violin down. “But you, Yashim, had the better opportunity.”

  “We’re in danger, Palewski. Perhaps Marta, too.”

  His friend looked up. “Marta?
She doesn’t know about the serpents’ heads.”

  “So you say. But they don’t know that, do they? I think you should send her away for a while.”

  “I will,” Palewski said doubtfully. Both of them knew instinctively that Marta would refuse. “And your Madame Lefèvre?”

  “My Madame Lefèvre, as you call her, was never involved. Anyway,” he added, glancing at Palewski’s violin, “she’s staying with Widow Matalya. Not with me.”

  He reached forward and picked up the violin to miss the expression on the ambassador’s face.

  “I should talk to Xani’s people, I suppose. Maybe they know where he is, or where he’s likely to have gone.”

  “The watermen’s guild?” Palewski looked doubtful. “They’re very close, from what I gather. Oldest guild in the city, all that. I don’t suppose you can just drop by for a chat.”

  “I wasn’t intending to. I do have a few contacts, you know,” Yashim said stiffly.

  68

  YASHIM found Amélie Lefèvre on his divan with a book in her hands.

  She jumped up when he came in.

  “Monsieur Yashim!”

  “Madame!”

  They both stared at each other. Then both began at once:

  “I was curious—”

  “I didn’t expect—”

  Amélie was the first to recover.

  “I felt lonely, Yashim efendi. The door was unlocked, and I found some books. French books.”

  She held up a slim volume. He took it and read the title on the spine. De Laclos: Les Liaisons Dangereuses.

  “I’ve never read it,” she said.

  “It’s unlucky,” Yashim replied.

  “You believe that?”

  Yashim slipped the book back into the shelves. “I read it once. I liked it very much.” He pushed against the spine with his thumb. “Six, seven people died.”

  “And now?”