An Evil Eye

92

Darkness was falling when Yashim arrived at the Polish residency. As he climbed the stairs he heard the sound of a violin, and when he entered the drawing room Palewski motioned him to an armchair with a swoop of the fiddle under his chin.

He sat for several minutes, eyes closed, pondering the story of Fevzi Ahmet’s youth, the sister’s death, the father’s curse. He only noticed that Palewski had finished playing when the ambassador flopped into the neighboring chair.

Yashim opened his eyes. “Why do you think Fevzi Ahmet chose to defect?”

“Bitterness and greed,” Palewski replied, as if the answer were obvious.

Yashim turned his head. “You think he took Egyptian gold?” He sounded curious.

“I imagine,” Palewski answered more slowly, “that he took Egypt’s gratitude. The gold, I am afraid, was Russian. It often is.”

“But why, if he was working for the Russians, did Fevzi Pasha kill the man in the well?”

Palewski shrugged.

Yashim said moodily, “Husrev Pasha thinks the same as you.”

“Well, I may say that the grand vizier is not a fool. Istanbul is vulnerable without a fleet-and the Russians are very close already.” Palewski sighed. “I’m afraid Fevzi Pasha’s defection makes it likely that they will come, as they might say, to protect the city.”

“The European Powers won’t like that much,” Yashim said.

“Perhaps not,” Palewski said, and Yashim could hear the doubt in his voice. “And they should have thought about that twelve years ago, when they helped the Greeks get independence. I hate to say it, Yash, but your empire hasn’t many friends.”

“The French-or the English-wouldn’t let the Russians take it over,” Yashim said, stoutly.

“If it meant crowning the tsar in Ayasofya, no, they wouldn’t like that. But the Russians can afford to play it softly. They’ve been waiting centuries to restore the empire of orthodoxy to its original seat-Constantinople. A loose protectorate might be a useful start.”

He crossed to his shelves and dragged down an atlas.

“Whatever they say at the British Foreign Office-or on the Quai d’Orsay-about letting Russians into Constantinople, an independent Bulgaria would be popular with public opinion. Free the Moldavians?” He stabbed a finger at the map. “Give the Greeks a Black Sea state? Let the Walachians choose a king? Nations, that’s what the British cotton millers understand. And black the sultan’s eye, into the bargain? They’d love it, Yash.”

“And you? You’d like it too?”

Palewski ran his fingers distractedly through his hair. “I ask only for Poland,” he said. “A Russian Constantinople is not the way.”

“You’re sure?”

“The English cotton millers, Yashim, live far away. They stand in little danger of being spattered with the blood of the Bulgarians, or the Turks, or the Moldavians, if Russia decides to assume control. It would be very bloody. And Russia would be stronger.”

He seemed to sag over the atlas. After a moment he shut it, and walked to the window.

“It would be strange, wouldn’t it, if your Fevzi Pasha’s defection led to women and children being hounded to death in the Balkan hills?” He spread his arms and rested his hands on the sash. “I’m beginning to think that something needs to be done.”

“And yet,” Yashim said sadly, “we have no friends.”

“But between rulers there are no friendships. Only alliances of interest. And your empire, I’m afraid, has failed to provide them. Leaving the state even weaker than it appears.”

“No one to help?”

Palewski caught his eye. “No help that I can think of, Yash. And I am sorry, for all our sakes.”