They scrambled in, trying not to giggle, the four of riiem taking up less room than the two big men. A signal to the driver, and the machine moved off with a jerk.
By some ingenious system of piped warm air, the windows were kept free of mist despite the cold. Al-iihough the snow was thickening they had an excellent view of the city as they rolled towards it—slowly, because crowds were converging on the south gate before it closed at sundown. The sight made Djinghiz’s heart ache. To be home again, after so long, after so many terrors . . .
But he fought the impulse to lose himself in gratified nostalgia. True to his character—Djinghiz had rarely met such a man for asking questions—Paluka was plying Ismail with demands for information. The latest thing to have caught his attention was a multilingual list of regulations concerning the use of steam vehicles on public highways.
“Forgive me, gospodin—I should rather say effendi, should I not?—but this section of the notice does not appear to be in Russian, though the letters are Cyrillic.”
“Ah! That’s because of our rather special situation. Everyone at this crossroads of the world grows up speaking at least two languages, usually Polish and Turkish. However, some out of principle prefer Russian, to show where their sympathies lie in the ebb and flow of great-power rivalry that washes about us like the ocean ‘round an island country such as yours. A good many go so far as to write their native Polish in Cyrillic script—hence that portion of the notice. Others still, regarding the Teutons as our liberators, affect German.”
“I see . . . Tfell me, what exactly is your relationship to the Teutonic States?”
“Technically, Krakow is a free city. That’s to say, we are governed by a council we elect ourselves, we impose our own taxes and customs duties, and so forth. But our status is precarious. The Ottomans resent the fact that they’ve lost control of this area, the Russians would like to see us exchange one foreign suzerainty for another, and—well, to adopt a metaphor from your pastime of wrestling, the Teutons ‘hold the ring.’ We permit them a token garrison, much though it tends to gall . . . Still, life is easier than under the Sultanate, even if it does mean that, to placate factionalism among the citizenry, the council has to issue its public notices in four versions!”
He concluded with a chuckle.
Djinghiz, having his own opinion about the way Krakow had been “taken under the protection” of the Teutons, would have expressed himself more strongly, but he couldn’t help admiring Ismail’s tactfulness .
“And you, effendi?” Paluka went on. “You’re Turkish? ’ ’
“No, Cracovian.”
Paluka blinked. “From your name—”
“Ah, but that’s no more of an indicator than calling a man Czar means he’s a Roman Caesar! I wasn’t bom in Krakow, but I was brought here as a child and this is where I grew up. I’ve become attached to the place. Apart from anything else it has a fascinating history. To recount it in detail would take volumes, but some you can read—if you know how—on the very faces of the buildings.”
They and the rest of the traffic had been forced to a halt by a brewer’s dray unloading barrels in a street broad but not quite broad enough, lined either side by handsome merchants’ houses ornamented with the symbols of Islam, crescents and moulded diaper-work, multicolored tiles and writhing Arabic script. Ismail went on; “To give you an example: see that house? ’ ’
He pointed at the one immediately to their left. A naphtha flare, flickering in the wind, cast dancing shadows on its richly carved facade. Behind lighted windows on the upper floors people moved in silhouette. There was an echo of music. But at street level crude wooden doors stood ajar to reveal crude and blackened wooden carts.
“Five kings once dined there, in that building! And now—well, as you see, it’s a coal-seller’s.”
“Five kings?" echoed Ratanayaka, who for an ascetic had sometimes struck Djinghiz as excessively interested in royal affairs. Of course, the founder of his religion had been a prince . . . “Five actual kings?” “Indeed! Or more exactly: the Emperor Charles plus the kings of Poland, Hungary, Denmark and Cyprus.” “It must have been a wonderful occasion!” exclaimed Feisal. “For—well, were not those monarchs Christians, planning to unite against the Turks?” “You’ve studied the decline of Catholic Christendom?” Ismail inquired, glancing round.
Feisal spread his hands. “As a Romologist I naturally take an interest in what was for so long the state religion of the Roman Empire.”
“Yes, naturally.” Ismail’s tone was perfectly neutral. “However, their hopes were swiftly dashed.”
Paluka murmured, “Would you amplify, for the benefit of one who knows little of European history? ’ ’ “Certainly/’ Ismail answered. “They failed through no fault of their own, simply by the will of Allah. The King of Cyprus brought the Black Death in his retinue. Before, it hadn’t reached this far. After . . . well, there was no hope of resistance.”
“But Krak6w survived!” Djinghiz cried, just as white-cloaked mounted police cantered up to reprimand the draymen for blocking the way. Since escaping the grip of Moslem orthodoxy, purveyors of alcoholic drink seemed to feel they could do as they liked. Sullenly, however, they shifted their dray enough for normal flow to resume.
Jerking his head around, Ismail favored Djinghiz with a frown. But the younger man was in a reckless mood. He went on doggedly, “Thanks to my people, Krakow survived!”
“Your people being—?” Paluka demanded.
“I’m a Tartar!”
Ismail’s frown became a glare. Djinghiz ignored it.
“Oh, I know people think all the Tartars live in the Far East or down in the Crimea! But this was the first great Tartar city! And I don’t give a gob of spittle for the people who say we had to steal it! We were driven back from it once, but we came again and found it deserted and half-ruined. Had it not been for us, today it would be as dead as Petra!”
“And then”—Ismail’s words united the delicacy of a scalpel with the brutality of a club—“your cousins the Turks came along and rolled you up like one of their own carpets.”
“Yes, but look at why they were so jealous of us! Lookr
He flung out his arm as though he could physically hurl the strangers’ attention forward. They turned as one.
And froze for a long moment, not fixated but transfixed .
By flickering firelight, resin torches, and harsh naphtha flares, they saw the greatest marketplace in all the world, standing to your run-of-the-mill bazaar as an ocean port to a coveful of fishing smacks. Not even the markets of Mexico could rival it.
Over its vast paved surface, ten acres in extent, were pitched the yurts, the vardos and the pavilions of traveling merchants, including some who had arrived aboard their own train and made haste to snatch what space there was. Certain areas were reserved to certain nationalities, whose flags and banners flew defiantly, but all were subject to police who, as they stared, cuffed aside a whimpering boy under orders from his master to light a campfire in the middle of the pavement, and soaked his firewood—bought at inflated price from one of the eager peddlars who wove their way among the throng—to rub in the lesson that here fires might be lit only in appointed places. That meant on the hearths punctuating the waist-high brick-built walls to either side of the square . . . but they, of course, were already occupied, and one must wait, and pay a fee, to use them. It came even more expensive when one had to dry out one’s fuel on someone else’s embers. That served in effect as an instant, if informal, fine, which was why the police carried wa-terbuckets.
As they passed on they left behind an atmosphere compounded of resentment crossed with resignation. Djinghiz had experienced it before, but he judged that his companions hadn’t: the tense uneasy truce of the serai.
Well satisfied with the impact the spectacle was having, he felt his fit of nationalistic pride recede. Later he might even apologize to Ismail. But he wasn’t sorry to have boasted on his people’s behalf. A vision of h
ow Krak<5w might have been flared in imagination: its paving buried under grass and mould, its buildings reduced to scrub-covered hummocks, its sole inhabitants wild birds and ammals, the only sound their cries and the moaning of the wind . . .
If this market had not remained theirs, then at least, six hundred years ago, it had been Tartars who kept it in being.
At the northeast corner of the square two towers of unequal height marked the city’s chief mosque: originally a church, it had been adapted to Islam by grafting a dome above its main roof and converting the towers to minarets. It being the sunset hour, from the taller of them a muezzin called the faithful to prayer, or at least the rump who were left now the influence of Hirkey had receded. Automatically their driver braked his vehicle to a halt, allowing them to drink in the unparalleled vision of the market.
The fading of echoes broke the spell. Scarcely had they died before cheerful music resounded, twanging bouzoukis, wailing shawms, clashing cymbals. Relaxing, those in the carriage painted with roses looked at one another as though they had never met before.
Unused to acting so totally on impulse, Djinghiz shivered. It was as though he had been taken over by a power outside himself. As a firm rationalist, who had rejected Islam on political grounds—Tartars had always resented being forced to identify with the Turks, even though as Ismail had observed they were cousins—he had equally dismissed the pagan beliefs which some Tartars were trying to revive as a symbol of independence.
Indeed, over to his right, illuminated by one of the authorized fires around which a group of laughing men were roasting chunks of meat on skewers (the scent, fragrant with herbs, awoke hunger deeper than his belly, deep as his soul) stood several wooden idols, copied from those dug up by archaeologists, such as nowadays were reappearing even within Imperial Russia in flagrant defiance of Moscow and its Christian bishops. Could they, noted subconsciously from the corner of his eye, have triggered his outburst?
“Djinghiz,” Ismail murmured, “are you trying to make your face imitate one of those hideous carvings?”
What ?
It was as though the portly man had read his mind. He jolted to full alertness, appalled that his secret thoughts should be shared with these strangers.
But they hadn’t been. The truth dawned. Ismail had addressed him not in Turkish, not in Russian, not in Polish, but in Tartar such as he had learned at his mother’s knee, and no one else in earshot could have understood.
Fortunately they were too polite to probe.
Grinning to disguise embarrassment, Djinghiz composed himself for the remainder of their ride.
Three: Roses in a Time of Snow
Two blocks north of the Market, on the left-hand comer of an intersection, the silhouette of a rose in wrought iron shone above a doorway, illuminated from behind by a lamp that glowed without flickering despite the ever-keener wind that now was brooming snow along the street. Paluka said, sounding impressed, “Is that light electrical?”
“Hmm?” Ismail was preparing to descend as a tall commissionaire strode towards the carriage. “Oh—no, it’s only gas, but the brightness is enhanced by a special mantle. It’s a Teuton invention, I believe. I’m afraid I don’t know much about such matters.”
The door admitted icy air. With bows and flourishes the commissionaire—an ex-soldier, no doubt, blind in one eye and sporting a blunt scimitar—greeted his master, ushered him and his companions inside, shouted at the rosebuds to make haste with their belongings.
In the entrance hall the rose design was omnipresent, but especially in the pattern of six splendid carpets that hung from ceiling to floor. Against their green and crimson backdrop adult staff hastened to take the new arrivals’ outdoor clothes, and their passports for police inspection, while more rosebuds darted to help their comrades with the luggage. Two of them, Djinghiz noticed with surprise, were not boys but girls, although identically dressed. That was new since his last visit.
Near the entrance a middle-aged African couple wearing incongruous fur coats and hats over sweeping Malian robes exchanged puzzled glances, clearly wondering what such a disreputable-seeming person as Djinghiz was doing in this select establishment—not that his companions looked much more presentable. But before they could comment aloud the commissionaire announced the arrival of a coach bound for a popular music-hall, and they departed into a flurry of snow.
Letting events pass him by, Djinghiz stood aside while rooms were allotted. As at a vast distance he heard Paluka inquire, after thanking Ismail, “Effendi, have I correctly deduced that you are in fact the proprietor? ’ ’
Behind the spoken question another was implied, and it was obvious from the way Feisal and Ratanayaka glanced round that they too hoped to hear it answered. Ismail waved a casual, as it were dismissive, hand.
“In view of certain services I was able to render in my youth, its former owner was kind enough to bequeath this house to me upon his departure for, one hopes, a happier world. But I take no responsibility for its day-to-day operation. I leave that to its admirable staff. ’ ’ He bestowed a broad smile on those within earshot.
As Djinghiz knew, Ismail was doing himself less than justice. He had slaved to rescue the Sign of the Rose, the oldest hostelry in town, when old Darko was drinking it into bankruptcy because he was so angry at the recall to Istanbul of the last Bey of Krakdw. (A betrayal, he’d kept saying—a rank betrayal!)
But the portly man had sensed what underlay the uttered words, and after a brief pause added, “You might say I can afford to regard it as a hobby. The comings and goings here are a source of endless fascination, and now and then I indulge myself by ensuring that particularly interesting visitors patronize my establishment rather than one of my rivals’. We have, as you know, lacked trains from Russia this half year, so when I learned yours carried passengers from exotic locales— Ethiopia, Lankha, Hawaii—I decided it was high time I again spent an evening listening to travelers’ tales. That is, if you have no objection.”
They exchanged glances, still visibly at a loss what to make of this extraordinary innkeeper. At last Paluka gave a shrug.
“I have none, effendi. And I trust my companions will not, either. But for you we could be printing the snow in search of where to lay our heads.”
“So it’s settled!” Ismail exclaimed, rubbing his hands. “I propose we meet for dinner in an hour—no, it’s still early, so let’s make it two. If any of you are accustomed to the hammam, we have our own on the premises”—Djinghiz couldn’t disguise his excited reaction, and knew Ismail had spotted it from the cock of one eyebrow—“but there are also facilities for bathing on each floor. Until then—Yes, gospodin Ratanayaka? ’ ’
The Lankhan said diffidently, “Your invitation is generous, but my faith forbids me to partake of animal food."
“Rest assured my cooks can meet your requirements. We never yet sent a guest away hungry.”
A barely seen signal jolted the rosebuds into action. Seizing the visitors’ bags, they set off up the staircase that faced the reception desk. As Djinghiz prepared to follow, Ismail laid a hand on his arm.
“This way,’ he murmured, as another rosebud—one of the girls—opened a door to the left of the stairs. Djinghiz braced himself by reflex, for last time he was here it had given on to an open yard, so he expected a chilly blast.
Instead: warmth, delicious smells, the clatter of metal dishes, even the song of a bulbul in a cage.
And roses! Scores of them, trained on the walls!
Advancing slowly, glancing from side to side and then upward, Djinghiz said, “Now I understand what you meant about the roof.”
The courtyard had been glassed in. Some snow had settled, but one could still see lights in the upper stories of the surrounding buildings. Below, benches and tables were set out; in one corner a small dais waited to receive musicians or other entertainers, while down the left side cooks were at work over firepits sunk in a stone counter under ventilation hoods. One was having trouble li
ghting the charcoal that would roast, on a vertical spindle driven by clockwork, the ingeniously assembled concoction of lamb known as doner kebab. Cursing, he borrowed a spoonful of glowing embers from the oven where the pita bread was to be baked, and that solved his problem. Satisfied, he dipped a branch of rosemary in oil to baste the meat.
“What do you think?” Ismail inquired, walking at Djinghiz’s side the length of the former courtyard. “You’ve made not one fortune since I went away, but two.”
“A lucky chance enabled me to purchase the houses on the other side of the yard, and the investment has proved, as I hoped, quite profitable. ... Do you want to patronize our hammam? The rosebud will unpack for you and have your laundry done, and bring fresh garments in your size.”
“It sounds,” Djinghiz said sincerely, “more and more like a foretaste of Paradise. Especially if someone will fetch me a drink.”
“Don’t tell me, let me guess. You’ve been in the East. Did you develop a taste for koumiss?” “Fermented mare’s milk? Traditional it may be, but— no! Do you have any rice wine? That can be drunk at hammam temperature. ’ ’
“We stock it for Japanese visitors. This way.”
Stretched out infinitely at his ease while a muscular masseur squeezed and pounded months of stiffness from his body, Djinghiz said, “I could purr like a cat!”
“In here, you may purr as much as you like,” Ismail said from an adjacent bench, naked save for a towel. The temperature of the hammam was near boiling point. “Tibor—” Nodding at the masseur, he set two fingers to his lips and pinched.
Ah. Deaf and/or dumb, thought Djinghiz. Ismail had acquired a reputation for good works because he was prepared to hire disabled people. Many were the lame and hunchbacked who had found their first employment in his kitchens—if only peeling vegetables or washing dishes—and some education with it; many were the grateful spies, in consequence, who kept him apprised of what went on throughout the city.
Beyond the Gate of Worlds Page 11