‘Even when it comes from the Palace?’
‘That’s right, yes. Yes, that’s right.’
‘So they were taking a close interest in what you did?’
‘Oh, very close.’
‘That’s unusual, isn’t it?’
‘Unprecedented!’
‘How did it come about?’
‘Well, I suppose it was because of what we had become. When Cunningham first came along and showed us his material, I didn’t want to touch it. “Not our kind of thing,” I said. “Too political.” But he persuaded me to try it out. The odd sketch or two, you know. That was all it was at first. I thought, try it out, and then drop it if it doesn’t work. But it did work! It worked amazingly. And soon the theatre was full! Every night! You see, no one else was doing anything like that. It was as if we were cocking a snook at authority, and that was something new in Istanbul. No one had dared do anything like that before. So, well, things took off.’
‘You know,’ said Seymour, ‘what you say surprises me. You say you were cocking a snook at authority; and yet that the Palace supported you.’
‘Not at first, not at first. We were definitely persona non grata. It was only when Prince Selim started coming.’
‘He persuaded them?’
‘No, no. No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. What it was, was that he suddenly realized he could use us. You see, through his association with us he could be in the public eye, and in a way different from what he was normally and from the other Princes. It’s no secret – I’m sure you know about it – that the old Sultan is on his deathbed and his successors are jostling for the throne. Well, Selim wanted to mark out a position different from the other parties in the jostle. They were traditional and conventional. He decided to be modern and improving. And what better way of showing this than associating himself with a theatre, the theatre, conspicuous for attacks on the old guard, the pashas, the people who’d been running the Empire for centuries? We were different, he was different; we were fashionable, he, suddenly, was fashionable, too.’
‘But the Palace . . .’
‘I think they were caught off guard. They hadn’t realized the power of popular entertainment, they were only just getting round to the idea of the need for popular support at all. So Selim stole an advantage. And, naturally enough, the other Princes started doing something about it. And the Palace, too. If he can manipulate public opinion, they thought, so can we. And so they didn’t close us down but started using us, too. Suggesting things. Of course we had to follow their suggestions. But that’s how it was. It wasn’t that Selim persuaded the Palace to take an interest in us, or at least, not directly. It was that they suddenly saw what he was up to and decided to take a hand themselves.’
‘And this was all, in a way, thanks to Cunningham?’
‘Well, I suppose you could say that. But you could also say that it was thanks to him that it all began to unravel!’
‘How was that?’
‘It was because of Lalagé. You know, just as I was saying. They cause more trouble than they’re worth. But at first it helped Selim. You know, the Prince and the Actress! Well! They don’t have actresses out here, you see, and people thought it was very advanced, very sophisticated. Just like Paris and Berlin! They were always going round together. And Lalagé really began to fancy herself. I don’t know how she expected it to end. In her becoming a Princess?
‘But, of course, while some people liked it and thought it was very advanced, others didn’t. The fact she was an actress, for a start. They don’t have actresses here, you see. They have a different attitude towards women.
‘Go up the street, go just round the corner, and what will you find? I’ll tell you: a snake-pit. And in the snake-pit there’s a woman. On show. Nude, of course, and along with the snakes. That’s how it is for a woman here. Or, at least, for a woman like Lalagé. An actress. Or it can be. Well, you take a look.’
‘And you think that that was perhaps why Lalagé –’
‘No, no, no. I’m not saying that,’ said Rudi hurriedly. ‘I don’t know why she was killed, and I don’t want to know. Don’t get me wrong: I’m sorry about Lalagé. She was a good kid. And who’s to blame her for fancying her chances with a Prince? It could happen. I’ve known it happen. And he seemed to be serious about her. Besotted with her, you might say.
‘And we played along. We were glad to. We thought our luck was in. A Prince! Royal patronage! Well, it makes a difference, you know. People listen to you if they think you’ve got someone big on your side. They don’t push you around. So we were glad to play along.
‘But then when Lalagé got killed everything went sour. There’s a risk to being in the public eye. And suddenly everyone started thinking about that. We began to think that maybe we were wrong to tie ourselves too closely to Selim, or let him tie himself to us. Some people might not like it, people just as big as him. We began to get a tickle at the back of our necks. I don’t hold with this talk about the Fleshmakers, I think it’s all nonsense, but, you never know, there might be something in it. I mean, think of Lalagé.
‘So when Selim pulled out, which he did after Lalagé’s death, we were in a way quite relieved. It made it easier for us to shift our position a bit. Not stick our neck out quite so much. That boy’s a twerp, Ahmet, I mean, but maybe he’s got something. Maybe we ought to go back to the old ways? Just for a bit, anyway. I mean, if he’s right, and there are people coming to see him . . .
‘Do you think he’s right? He could be. There’s a Councillor been several times to see us, and a Prince. Prince Hafiz, who’s just as big as Selim. And if they like him and like the old ways, well . . . In the theatre you’ve always got to stay close to your audience. I’ve always said that. So . . .
‘Anyway, we’ve changed tack. Gone back to the old ways. That’s why we’re doing a lot of rehearsing at the moment. It’s not easy. Everyone’s got to change. The band . . .’
Seymour went to see the band after he had left Rudi. They were taking a break, one of the attendants told him, and could be found in the nearby park, the one he’d noticed on his first visit to the theatre.
And there they were, sprawled in the shade of the bandstand, taking refreshment, as is the way of bandsmen the world over when they were not playing.
‘It’s the lips,’ explained the flute player. ‘You’ve got to keep them moist.’
‘It’s the fluid loss,’ explained the drum player learnedly. ‘When you’re playing the drums, you sweat buckets. You’ve got to replace it.’
‘It’s the heat,’ explained the kemengeh player. ‘You wouldn’t believe how hot it gets when you’re playing down there in the pit. It really parches you up.’
‘My God!’ said Seymour. ‘It’s fortunate that I came when I did. You might have expired before I got here. Would it help if I ordered some beer from that stall over there? Or would your religious scruples . . .’
They were prepared, for the moment, to set aside their religious scruples. Seymour got one for himself, too, and sat down beside them.
‘So,’ he said, ‘you’re doing a lot of rehearsing? Would this be because of Rudi’s new tack?’
The band leader shrugged.
‘It’s not that new,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t make a lot of difference to you?’
‘I play old,’ said the drum player. ‘I play new. I even play modern if they pay me enough.’
‘You see, it’s different here,’ explained the leader. ‘In Europe, or so they tell me, it’s one thing or another. You go to a concert hall if you want classical, to a music hall or something like that if you want popular. But here it’s not like that. Audiences are happy with both. In a place like ours you can play either. The tricky bit is fitting it to what goes on up on the stage. It doesn’t matter what the music is as long as it goes with the performance.’
‘We improvise,’ said the kemengeh player.
‘Isn’t that difficult? I mean, how do you know what to pl
ay?’
‘We sit in on rehearsals,’ said the band leader, ‘so that we can work it out.’
‘We sort of fiddle around,’ said the kemengeh player.
‘And it takes shape,’ said the flute player.
‘We always know what we’re going to do when we get to the actual performance,’ said the leader. ‘I mean, we don’t just trust to luck.’
‘So you’re there for all rehearsals?’ said Seymour, sipping his beer.
‘That’s right. Of course, we get paid for it.’
‘Though not very much,’ said the kemengeh player.
‘Well, it sounds very difficult to me. Especially when it’s a question of developing a new approach. But it’s working out all right, is it?’
‘We-e-ll . . .’
‘Perhaps even better?’
‘I wouldn’t say that.’
‘Better? With that twerp up front?’
‘Ahmet? But I thought, from what he was saying, that he was a big hit?’
‘I’d like to hit him, if that’s what you mean,’ said the drum player morosely.
‘Apparently, people were coming to see him. Big people.’
‘That Councillor the other night? But he didn’t come to see Ahmet. Not the first time.’
‘No? Who did he come to see, then?’
‘That saz player.’ The kemengeh player turned to the flute player. ‘You know, you can say what you like, but that man could play! He wouldn’t do for us, of course, he’s not a band player. But he could play, all right. And he was the one that Councillor came to see. The Englishman brought him.’
‘Well, thank you, Englishman! He brought the saz player in the first place, and that was a waste of time. And then he brought that dopey Prince, and see the trouble that caused! We’d be better off without him bringing people.’
‘Anyway, I don’t think the Councillor came just to see the saz player,’ said the flute player. ‘Because he came again, didn’t he, after Babikr had left. Several times.’
‘He definitely came to see Ahmet. He used to invite him up to his box. So he must have liked him.’
‘I can’t understand that,’ said the kemengeh player. ‘I can understand him coming to see that saz player, because, as I say, he could play. But that little twerp, Ahmet –’
‘No talent at all. I’m surprised he couldn’t see through him.’
‘He even brought Prince Hafiz to see him.’
‘Well, I can’t understand that, either. I would have thought Prince Hafiz knew better than that. He’s supposed to be a connoisseur, isn’t he?’
‘Maybe acting wasn’t the particular talent that he was looking for!’
They all guffawed.
‘I got that little bastard the other day, didn’t I?’ said the drum player, with satisfaction. ‘He ponces up to the front of the stage and sort of pauses. You know, to make sure that everyone is listening to him. And then he opens his mouth. And then I hit my drum!’
‘Couldn’t hear a word,’ said the flute player. ‘Brilliant!’
‘He opens his mouth again and I give it another roll!’
‘He gets in a fury,’ said the kemengeh player, laughing, ‘and flounces off.’
‘And little Rudi goes running after him. “Oh, please, Ahmet, come back! Do come back!” But he doesn’t, not that time. Not at once, anyway.’
‘And bloody good riddance!’ said the drum player.
‘Yes, but it was just as well it was only during a rehearsal,’ said the band leader, ‘and not during a performance. Rudi didn’t like it.’
‘He gave me a warning,’ said the drum player. ‘But I hope he’s forgotten about it. Because that was the day there was all the trouble. You know, Lalagé. Well, I’m sorry about Lalagé but glad I got that little bastard.’
Seymour walked back with them to the theatre. They went inside and he walked on up the street. The street broadened out into a little triangle, and wedged against the apex of the triangle was a wire-mesh cage surrounded by a low wooden fence. You paid to go in and when you got there you could look down into a sunken pit. The pit was full of snakes. In the middle of the pit a woman was lying. She was completely naked and snakes were draped about and all over her. They lay in coils, rolls and bars, like richly decorated brocade mottled and inlaid with patterns in buff, orange and yellow. From time to time the woman stretched out a hand and touched the coils. Then there was a ripple of movement, a kind of liquefaction beneath the skins, as they all shifted. Then the movement subsided and the snakes went back to being as inert as they had been before and as she, apart from the touching out of a hand, had been throughout.
When Seymour got back to his hotel he found a note from Mukhtar. It said that Mr Demeyrel’s report had now come through, and that the string that had killed Lalagé Kassim was indeed from a musical instrument: the saz.
Chapter Twelve
Seymour went to the theatre that evening. He managed to time his arrival for the start of the performance of Rudi’s troupe. It was different from the performance he had seen before. Not only were some of the sketches different – the result, presumably, of Rudi’s new tack – but, of course, there was no Lalagé. Nor, rather to his surprise, was Nicole there.
He was surprised at the difference Lalagé’s absence made. He hadn’t realized before how important she was to the troupe’s performance, the way in which she gave them all a lead, the way in which they had all played off her. Tonight the troupe’s dynamics were completely different. In Lalagé’s absence, Ahmet queened the stage – in all manners of speaking – and they played off him. But somehow it didn’t work so well. The interaction between the players was more clumsy, there was hesitation and uncertainty; and, of course, antipathy.
He realized suddenly, too, how important the music was. The band, too, played off the leading actor: only in this case it was playing, it must be deliberately, against him: slightly mistiming the cues, introducing unfortunate echoes, almost raspberries. He could see Ahmet getting cross.
But Ahmet himself was no help to anybody. He flounced around the stage stealing the limelight in a way which, if Seymour had been a member of the cast, would have thoroughly put his back up.
The audience, however, to his surprise, seemed to love it. Were they, he wondered, such connoisseurs of guying that they could appreciate it even when actors guyed themselves? Or were they aficionados of the lost arts, relishing a return to old traditions which ignorant foreigners could not perceive?
When the troupe went off for a break Seymour leaned across the top of the box and asked one of the waiters to invite Ahmet to join him. ‘Join an admirer,’ was how he put it, and it worked.
Ahmet quickly appeared and accepted Seymour’s compliments graciously. Seymour noticed that he drank the same green concoction as Lalagé had, and wondered if it was a special house lemonade charged to customers at the price of a souped-up champagne, but, on reflection, thought that possibly Ahmet was not well up in sophisticated drinking habits and had taken his cue from Lalagé.
He asked the dancing boy where he had learned his skills.
‘Oh, Damascus and Beirut,’ said Ahmet airily.
‘I suppose,’ said Seymour, ‘that in something like this, while teaching goes a long way, natural talent goes further.’
‘Just so,’ said Ahmet, gratified.
‘But, in the end, what is important is opportunity.’
‘Exactly,’ agreed the dancing boy.
‘When it comes along, you have to seize it.’
‘You certainly do.’
‘But, then, I imagine, it won’t come of its own accord. You have to make it for yourself.’
‘That’s also true.’
‘You will remember, perhaps, that earlier in the week I saw you with Prince Selim on his estate. I imagine his support has been helpful to you.’
‘The support of people like that is always welcome,’ Ahmet murmured.
‘Yes, I’m sure. The problem must be getting people like th
at to see you in the first place. You must have been very pleased when Cunningham Effendi brought you to the Prince’s attention.’
‘Cunningham Effendi?’
‘Wasn’t it he who introduced the Prince to the theatre?’
‘Yes, but –’
‘I expect it was he who first pointed you out to him.’
‘Cunningham Effendi?’ said Ahmet, taken aback. ‘But Cunningham Effendi didn’t like me. He did everything he could to stop me from being recognized. “That little prick?” I heard him say once. “He doesn’t act; he just strikes beautiful poses.” It made me so angry. I could have spat. In fact, I did spit. On him. But that was when the Prince stepped in. “Now, now, Cunningham,” he said, “he’s a man of talent. I can see he’s a man of genuine talent.” So it was the Prince who spotted me. Not Cunningham Effendi.’
‘I’m so sorry. So I’ve got it wrong. It was the Prince! All credit to him. Of course, when I met you with him, I could see how much he valued you.’
‘Not at first. At first it was all that little bitch, Lalagé Kassim. He had become absolutely besotted with her. But she was already having an affair, with Cunningham Effendi. I don’t think Cunningham Effendi minded at first, in fact, he rather encouraged Selim. But then he thought he was going too far and told him to back off.
‘And the Prince flew into a terrible rage and said it wasn’t for a Prince to back off, and he ordered Cunningham Effendi to keep away from her. Cunningham Effendi said he didn’t take orders, and Prince Selim said, “In this country you do!” And they had an awful quarrel.
‘And that little bitch, Lalagé, didn’t know what to do. Which one should she go for? The Prince was, when all was said and done, a Prince; but, deep down, I think she preferred Cunningham Effendi. In the end she went for him, which was a mistake. The Prince was very offended and went off in a fury.
‘He turned against her so much that Cunningham Effendi had to do something about it. He tried to reason with him but Selim wouldn’t even speak to him. So he tried other things. He even pushed me in the Prince’s direction. “Catch him on the rebound,” he said. But at first it didn’t seem to work. He was still so angry about Lalagé. But gradually I brought him round. “You don’t want to waste your time on that little bitch,” I said, “when I can offer you so much more.” And eventually he realized this and forgot about her.
A Dead Man in Istanbul Page 16