Palewski was delighted to discover that Father Doherty was working in the Patriarchal Archives, poring over thousand-year-old deeds, scriptures, and texts with a view to drawing up a comparative register. The Vatican Library, to which Father Doherty had privileged access, was famously well stocked, but a huge amount of material—especially material relating to the early history of the popes—was evidently missing.
“We know it, Palewski. Everything at the Vatican points to the existence of documents somewhere else. A correspondence, for example, of which only one side remains. A trail of reference that goes cold, a chain that falls apart, some document of which only fragmentary quotations survive. I’ll not deny you, there’s more in the Vatican itself than any man knows, and yet—the burning of the library at Alexandria! The wretched conflagration of parchment and vellum that attended the sack of Constantinople in 1204! Not to mention the Viking raids, in my own country, and the rest of the Isles—Dublin and Lindisfarne, Glasgow and Iona! It makes my flesh creep to think of it all.”
“But it brings you to Istanbul?”
Doherty nodded, and poured another glass. There were still various important papers and manuscripts, he explained, which might—just might, at that—be found to have survived in the Patriarchal Archives. As recently as 1453, when the Turks seized the city, an Orthodox bishop had borne some priceless manuscripts away to Rome, and left hints about the treasures that he’d left behind. Finally, almost for the first time in centuries, Vatican officials had reached an agreement with their Orthodox counterparts, and Doherty had been sent by the Vatican librarians to take a look.
“Not that it’s easy to do so, Palewski. There’s Brother Agapios, for one thing.”
“Brother Agapios?”
“The very same.” The Irishman took a stand next to Palewski’s bookshelves and announced: “Brother Agapios!” He stooped, folded his hands, and slowly allowed his head to revolve, suspiciously, along the spines. “A chained library? We don’t need a chained library here. My name, schismatic, is Agapios.”
He straightened up, grinning. Palewski nodded, uneasily.
“To be sure, to be sure. I like the man!” Father Doherty pulled out a handkerchief, and mopped his forehead. “Admire him.” He swayed slightly beside the shelves. “I understand him, to tell the truth.”
“It has been four centuries, and a little more, since the Ottoman conquest of Istanbul, Father. Not always easy for the Patriarch—or his librarians—to steer a safe course. At times sultans would have cast them all to the flames, and their books, too.”
“Four centuries, and a little more,” Doherty echoed. “And a Brother Agapios every generation, I’ve no doubt.”
He came over and sat on the chair Yashim liked, and stared at the ceiling.
“You’re young at this, man.”
“Young?” Palewski lowered his feet to the floor. “Young at what?
“Endurance.”
Palewski bent forward and tilted his glass until the champagne touched the brim. “Poland, you mean?”
Doherty meant Poland, but it was Ireland he spoke about.
“Will you endure when they’ve driven you to the marshes? When they desecrate your churches, will you endure? When your professors and your priests have been driven from pillar to post, starved, beaten, and deprived of a living? Tell me how you think about endurance when your children take instruction in the hedgerows, and the wisest man in Leinster gathers his audiences in a ditch—a ditch! With a boy to be peeping out for the redcoats! Say it again, my friend, when you see the language beaten out of them, afraid to speak to their own sires in their own tongue.”
Palewski bowed his head. “Even if it comes to that.”
He watched the bubbles rise in his glass. There was a speech he could make, too, but instead he said: “We have greater hopes than you might imagine.”
Doherty was silent.
“Ireland is isolated—but the whole continent of Europe is poised for change.”
Doherty blew out his cheeks. “That’s what they said about Napoleon—but he didn’t pull Poland’s chestnuts out of the fire, man.”
“No—I don’t look to the French. They follow their own interests.”
“But you’ll not have change without them,” Doherty said. “That’s what history tells us. Who else is there?”
Palewski swung the bottle and refilled the glasses. “Credit where it’s due—at least the French gave us champagne! Tell me more about the Patriarchal Archives.”
Doherty gave an enormous sigh, and began to describe the stacks, loaded with ancient books. “Very much in my line, Your Excellency, for there’s barely a printed book of any worth among them. My Greek’s a little rusty, to tell the truth, but I can see that their Greek texts are a pretty crude affair, neither well made (they send to Venice for the better sort), nor interesting from a theological point of view. But it’s a rare treasure trove of manuscripts—some bound, some loose, organized by the devil himself, I take it. That’s what makes Brother Agapios so indispensable—he’s the only one who knows where the things are. And he does it all by touch.”
“By touch?”
“God’s truth. The man’s blind as a bat.”
Palewski leaned back in his armchair, smiling. Every now and then he got the urge to reshelve his own voluminous collection of books, according to some new principle that had occurred to him: size, perhaps, or subject, or author. But touch—that was a new one. He turned the idea over in his mind, and was still musing when the front door banged and the sound of footsteps rang busily on the staircase outside.
“Ciao, Palewski! Sta bene? Here we are again, and—ah!”
Giancarlo swiveled to the little priest, who inclined his head politely.
Palewski’s first thought, when he heard the familiar rumpus on the stairs, was that the timing was poor; but he had underestimated the priest’s affability and the Italians’ natural good manners. When Doherty finally understood why the boys were in Istanbul, he only smiled and cocked his head, and observed that modern politics were not in his line.
“By modern, now, I mean anything that occurred after the Schism of 1054,” he added, with a twinkle in his eye. “No doubt about it, that’s why I get along so well with my Orthodox brethren. After all, I am only a parish priest,” he reminded them, “with the soul of a librarian.”
Giancarlo laughed. “We have no argument with libraries!”
“But they should be open for the people,” Rafael added, solemnly. “Even at the Vatican.”
“Especially there,” Giancarlo retorted. He glanced at Birgit but she was smiling out the window.
“Mary and Joseph!” Father Doherty cried. “But you touch me on the raw, my dear fellows! I’m all for the people, love them and bless them. But”—he wagged a finger—“but it’s not to say I want a library at the very mercy of all the dust, dirt, and sneezes of Christendom! My dear fellows, just consider the mayhem and the destruction that would ensue, should all the world’s scholars and wasters descend in a body on those priceless documents and books! I speak as a scholar, not as a politician, of course.” He half-turned to Palewski. “The ambassador has the old disease, as well as me. Bibliomania!”
“Incurably,” Palewski murmured.
“There’s manuscripts in the Vatican that would fall apart if you so much as breathed on ’em! It’s not a library—it’s a record of civilization itself!”
“A part of one civilization,” Rafael corrected him, holding up a finger.
“Oh, my darlin’ boy—you’d find stuff from all your other civilizations in there, too. To whom, might I ask, did the Great Cham write, when he wanted to speak to Christendom? To whom did the sultan here in Istanbul address himself—or the Great Mogul, or the Khans of Bulgaria? There’s letters in that Vatican Library, let me tell you, written in scripts that are dead and forgotten everywhere else—written on bark and in blood, dear men, letters from vanished civilizations, testaments to worlds and lands that are buried beneath
the desert sands, or deluged beneath the waves for their iniquities, no doubt. How—how did the great Charlemagne sign his name, do you know?”
Giancarlo shrugged. Palewski bent forward: “With an X.”
“That’s right! With an X. It’s on the deeds, preserved in that great library! Not a library at all, but a hidden world, a preserved testament to the history of mankind in Europe—and beyond! I’ll have another glass, yes, why not. I’m enjoying myself.” Father Doherty twinkled as the wine flowed, and even Rafael, dark and solemn, could not resist a smile. He was not quite ready to give up the fight, though.
“What about the Index? The books His Holiness thinks are too dangerous, that we are too weak to read?”
Father Doherty gave one of his cheerful winks. “Oooh, now, the Index. I’ll tell you something about it, if you like. There’s books in there that would make your flesh creep, and books that would make you laugh, and nine out of ten aren’t worth the paper they’re printed on, God’s honest truth. Drivel, flattery of princes, praise of the Seven Sins, the production of weak and disordered minds.”
“Galileo Galilei? Dante? Savonarola?”
But Doherty wasn’t having that. “And who’s to stop you reading them, if you’ve a mind to do it? There, you’re an educated man, and you’ve read these books, no doubt…”
Palewski’s eyes wandered toward the window, where Birgit sat and gazed pensively at the wisteria that drifted up the wall. He joined her, leaving the others still talking around the fireplace. She turned her head toward him, smiling her slow Danish smile.
“I thought Istanbul would be—different,” she said. “But really, it’s the same. A priest, the boys talking, champagne. The ambassador.”
“The ambassador’s not different?”
Her eyes flickered. “Maybe. Unusual.”
“Istanbul has become more unusual since you came,” Palewski said.
“How do—oh!” She took his meaning, and blushed. “I wear a headscarf in the street.”
Palewski shook his head. “If it were only your hair…”
Birgit gave a low laugh. “That I am traveling with these boys? Is that what you mean?”
It was Palewski’s turn to blush. “I didn’t mean—that is, it’s something else about you, unknown in Istanbul. An independence, perhaps.”
She gave him a mocking smile. “Independence? It’s not my most obvious quality.”
“Oh, that. Ce n’est qu’une façon de vivre.” He dismissed it with a wave, as just a way of life. “In yourself, you’re independent. I daresay it’s the Baltic air.”
“Our sea. Yours and mine.” She leaned her chin on her fist. “The Baltic seems a long way off. In experience, I suppose. Not miles.”
They were silent then. Ever since the pasha’s invitation to shoot, Palewski had spoken to his father in dreams; sniffed the air of early morning; recalled the boy that was. He thought it was age but perhaps he was wrong: the distance was experience, as Birgit said.
She turned from the wisteria and his heart thumped. Her eyes were blue like childhood seas. The sound in his chest was so loud that he leaned back and folded his arms; he was hardly surprised to see someone detach himself from the group around the fireplace.
“Forgive me, Palewski. Your clerical friend confuses me.” It was Fabrizio: he glanced at Birgit. “Are you all right?”
She smiled. “The ambassador needs champagne.” She took Palewski’s glass; her fingers brushed against his and his heart jumped.
“Gentlemen,” he muttered, rising to his feet. “Some more champagne!”
He felt boorish; his feet were heavy. He went to the door, opened it, and stepped onto the landing.
Closing the door behind him, he paused, leaning against the wall with his eyes closed.
“Kyrie? You look pale.” Marta stood with her hands crossed at the wrists.
“Yes, Marta. I think I’ll go upstairs.” He turned, not to see the expression in her face.
13
TO Yashim’s surprise, Marta opened the door just as he was about to push the handle.
“Yashim efendi! I’m so glad it’s you,” she said, wringing her hands. “Those Franks are in the drawing room, and the kyrie has gone to bed.”
“To bed?”
“He looked so pale, I am worried about him. There is a new visitor here, too, a priest of the kyrie’s church. The kyrie brought him home from the French embassy.”
Yashim shook his head. “Perhaps I had better go home myself.”
“Oh no, efendi, please! The men are drinking wine. The woman is there, also.”
Yashim grasped Marta’s predicament. “Very well. I’ll talk to the kyrie, and then we’ll see.”
“But he is asleep.”
Yashim felt a flash of irritation with Palewski. “All the more reason, Marta. I’ll dig him out.”
Marta still looked doubtful as he climbed the stairs. Passing the door to the drawing room, he paused to listen to an unfamiliar voice, a high, bluff voice that resounded through the thick panels.
“You’ll not get me to admit that! You’ll not take me along on that line!”
Yashim continued up the stairs, knocked at Palewski’s door, and went in without waiting.
His friend was not asleep: instead, he leaped from the bed as the door opened.
“Oh, it’s you!”
Yashim looked at him curiously. “Marta told me you were looking pale.”
Palewski ran a hand through his hair. “Yes. Poor Marta. I felt—I felt odd. Are they still here?”
Yashim came into the room and closed the door. “You’re ill?”
Palewski sank down onto the bed and rubbed his forehead. “I don’t know. I had—well, a sort of shock. A surprise.” His hand dropped and he looked up at Yashim. “I think I fell in love.”
Yashim leaned his back against the door. “Go on.”
Palewski gave a weak laugh. “I’m trying to recover, Yash. She’s half my age, and spoken for. I had to get away.”
“Shall I encourage them to leave?”
“No—yes, that would be best.”
“I’ll say you’re feeling unwell.”
“Don’t—that is, don’t put it like that. Tell them I’ve got something—an appointment.”
“At this hour?”
He left Palewski sitting on the bed, his face buried in his hands. Downstairs he found the Italians in the drawing room, and the priest scribbling at Palewski’s escritoire.
“Signor Yashim!”
There were several empty bottles on the sideboard, and one had rolled close to the window seat where Birgit still sat with her hands folded and a slight smile on her face. Giancarlo was sitting beside her, Rafael at the bookshelves. Fabrizio was bent into an armchair, like a spring, cleaning his nails with a thin knife.
“My apologies, gentlemen, and mademoiselle. I’m afraid that I have detained the ambassador on some government business—he sends his apologies with mine.”
The priest got up from the desk. He bowed slightly and touched his forehead. “Father Doherty,” he said.
“Yashim. I’m an old friend of the ambassador’s.”
“A privilege. I’ve enjoyed Count Palewski’s company since mass today, and am delighted to make the acquaintance of any friend of his. I had an inkling that the ambassador was detained, so I have taken the liberty of writing him a note.” He gestured to the escritoire.
“Of course. I’ll see he gets it.”
“It’s been quite a day!” The priest’s eyes twinkled as he took his leave. “I’ve enjoyed our discussion, Giancarlo, all you young people … well, a pleasure. A very great pleasure.”
When he had gone, Giancarlo asked if Palewski would be coming back. “No? Then we should not disturb him any longer. Come on, boys and girls.”
“But I am comfortable,” Fabrizio protested. “The ambassador doesn’t mind.”
“I say we go.”
The girl at the window seat looked from one to the other, and
arched her eyebrows.
“You go if you like,” Fabrizio retorted, lowering his eyelids. His face was slightly flushed. “I want to stay.”
“If it helps, I’m going, too,” Yashim said peaceably. “It’s dark already.”
Birgit got to her feet and picked up her shawl. Giancarlo and Rafael were at the door.
“We’re leaving.” Giancarlo stood looking at Fabrizio.
Fabrizio made a slight movement and something whirred through the air to strike the doorjamb with a soft thud. It happened so quickly that Yashim was not sure what it was.
Giancarlo was the first to move. “You bloody idiot,” he hissed. He reached out and yanked a small knife from the wood. “You could have killed someone.”
Fabrizio smiled. “I wasn’t aiming to kill anyone. It was only a joke.”
Giancarlo glanced at Yashim, awkwardly, his face set. He pressed the knife between his fingers and the blade disappeared; he slipped it into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Signor Yashim.” He lowered his voice. “Fabrizio can be like this when he’s had a bit too much to drink.”
Yashim responded with a murmur; Fabrizio got to his feet.
“Va bene.”
They stood aside to let him pass, then followed down the stairs.
At the door, Yashim gave a sigh of impatience. “I was meant to fetch some papers. You go on.”
They said their farewells. When they had gone, Yashim went upstairs to find Palewski already coming down.
“You got them to go? Thank you.”
“Father Doherty left you a note.”
Palewski took a glass of brandy to the escritoire, and picked up the note. “Dear Palewski, blah blah, great pleasure … blah blah … your young friends … unexpected treat … Father Doherty. Hmm. Wonder why he bothered, really.”
The Baklava Club: A Novel (Investigator Yashim) Page 5