An Evil Eye

47

The embassy caique swept over a glassy sea. Yashim lay back, reveling in the wind, pondering his discovery.

At length he saw the dim outline of the Topkapi Palace, lights in the tower of the Third Court, and the curve of the dome of Ayasofya. As the ferry wheeled into the Golden Horn, the great mosques of Bayezid and Suleyman seemed like curious configurations of the hilltops; beneath them, all along the Stamboul shore, a parade of tiny lights winked in the gathering darkness where the fishermen had set up their braziers. The quayside was empty. The fishermen had already gone, leaving their nets. The men who hung around the quays had retreated-some to the Greek bars that thronged the lower streets around the port, others to their wives and children.

A whiff of grilled fish wafted across the water.

The fishing boats drawn up on the strand were all alike, all selling mackerel fresh from the sea, and Yashim found it hard to choose one over another. He saw a sailor sitting on his hams and munching a sandwich with evident enjoyment: the firelight flickered on his black skin, and his teeth were very white in the darkness.

Yashim approached the boat and pointed to the flaming grill. “I’d like one nicely done,” he said.

The fisherman nodded, dropped a split mackerel into a round of bread, and held it up. And at that moment something odd happened.

The sandwich disappeared.

Yashim’s hand met the empty hand of the fisherman, and they both startled.

Overhead a branch creaked in the darkness.