An Evil Eye

82

Yashim followed the street that dropped from Ayasofya mosque to the shore of the Golden Horn. Beyond the mosque of the valide, past the entrance to the spice bazaar, the ancient walls disappeared into a warren of haphazard wharves and boatyards that had grown up around them after many centuries of peace. Here and there one could still glimpse a section of banded brick and stone, or crenellations that crumbled above a riot of roofs and makeshift staircases, as the old defenses were gradually absorbed into the fabric of the city. Beyond the walls, the water stirred listlessly against the muddy banks.

At the Prison Gate Yashim found a caique and crossed the Horn. The new bridge was almost complete. In summer they had cut down the great plane tree that had given the people shade, because it stood in the way of the bridge.

Without its spreading branches to protect him, the wind was keener; the crossing chilled him. At the foot of the Galata steps he stopped for coffee, and sat cross-legged with his back to the brazier, looking out across the water. The weather had finally turned. A late Indian summer had ebbed away; the storks had flown south and already white crests ruffled the Bosphorus, whipped up by a wind that blew across the Black Sea from the steppes of Central Asia.

The Turks had come from the same place, centuries ago. Nomads, shepherds, horsemen: tent-dwelling tribesmen who worshipped stones and rivers, and met beneath the spreading branches of a tree to administer justice and settle their affairs. It would have been a tree, Yashim thought, much like the great plane that had drooped its branches over the Golden Horn, festooned with rags and prayers.

He half closed his eyes. That, of course, had been the purpose of the tree: in the minds of the people it was a link between heaven and earth, a conduit between earthly troubles and heavenly justice. It was not so much a belief as an instinct: justice belonged to the sky and the open air. Justice and fairness flourished in the open, from the kadi, who gave his verdict in an open court, to the Turkish tribal chief, who spoke to his people sitting around the trunk of a tree.

He stared, frowning, into his coffee. How times had changed! The spreading tree had been exchanged for the palace, and its harem, where everything was effectively invisible. Nobody knew, and nobody cared, who lived there, or how they lived-or died. In a world closed and enveloped in secrecy, justice withered like a pale shoot deprived of the sun.

Yashim slapped some silver on the table and strode from the cafe, his cloak billowing behind him; outside he turned his back on the water and began to mount the steps two by two, dodging the porters bent double under their enormous loads, the musical instrument sellers, the sherbet vendors, and the little Jewish boys who sold paper on every landing. All Pera seemed to teem on the steps, veiled women, priests in black, foreign sailors, businessmen in frock coats and fezzes, builders in turbans. Yashim kept his head down and moved fast, not drawing breath until he reached the rusted iron gates of the Polish residency.

Dry leaves swirled around his feet as he crossed the yard. He climbed the steps and let himself into the dim hall. From overhead he heard the distant sound of a fiddle. Picking his way carefully through the gloom he reached the stairs, where the treads creaked as he mounted toward the light that streamed through the landing window.

He paused there for a moment, leaning his forehead against the glass. Outside, Marta was on the grass, pegging clothes on a line. Farther off, beyond the yellowing leaves, Yashim could make out the cobbled coach yard where the widow Baxi still lived with her two children-just another of the myriad tiny and traditional arrangements that made up the city’s shape and population. He could even see the Baxi boy outside, under the pump, dangling a piece of string for a cat.

At the top of the stairs he went in, silently, and settled into a chair, relishing as ever the familiarity of these strange things: an armchair, a mantelpiece, a slender bottle of something pale and unlabeled on a mahogany side table.

Yashim lay back and listened to the notes that flowed from Palewski’s violin.

When the last notes had died away, Palewski laid the fiddle on the side table. “Chopin,” he said. “The Prelude in A Major.”

“It’s very beautiful.”

“It’s very short.”

He opened a cupboard. “ Palinka. Hungarian schnapps. Keeps out the cold.”

“I’m quite happy with this fire,” Yashim said, stretching out his hands.

“Marta had it swept,” Palewski said. He poured the plum brandy into two glasses and set one down beside Yashim. “In case you change your mind,” he added. “What we really want here is a stove, of course. Can’t think why we didn’t put one in while we still had the money.”

Yashim knew that Palewski was referring to ancient history: it was many decades since any Polish ambassador had had money.

Palewski rubbed his hands. “Mediterranean people are like crickets,” he said. “You never believe it’ll get really cold. Your fireplaces-they’d disgrace a theater set. Flimsy, far too small. Not proper heating. And yet it snows almost every year.”

“And every year,” Yashim said, smiling, “you say the same thing.”

“If you go on saying and believing the same things for long enough, the world will eventually come around.” Palewski descended into the neighboring armchair and set his glass on his knee. “On the other hand, I have some curious news.”

Yashim picked up the glass Palewski had set beside him. “News?”

“What I hear-” Palewski paused. “I hear that the admiral Fevzi Pasha has disappeared.”