Yashim woke early, groping for the quilt that had slipped from his legs. He squinted at the unaccustomed brightness and then sat up, yawning, and rubbed the condensation from the window pane. Snow lay thick on the rooftops of Balat.
He drew up his knees and leaned back against the cushions, watching his dragon’s breath.
After a few moments he began to grope for his clothes, drawing them under the quilt to warm up, before he sprang with a shiver from the divan and began to dress, hurriedly wriggling his arms into the sleeves of the cambric shirt he wore over his woolen vest. There was ice in the washbasin: Yashim pulled a face, plunged his hand through the ice, and splashed freezing water over his eyes, his mouth and ears. He dried himself quickly on a towel, feeling newly awake. Over his shirt he put on a woolen waistcoat and a quilted jacket; then he tucked his feet into a pair of slippers.
Outside the door he bent down and carefully fastened a pair of galoshes over his feet. The alley was covered in snow, but once he reached Kara Davut the way was better; shopkeepers had shoveled the snow into the middle of the road. He entered his favourite cafe, rubbing his hands, and the proprietor nodded and put a small coffee pan on the coals.
Yashim ate his breakfast by the steamed-up window, coffee and a corek as usual, which is how the palace chaush found him a few minutes later. Several heads turned in the cafe as he presented Yashim with a note, bound in vermilion ribbon; then they looked hastily away. Among the Turks, curiosity was not reckoned a virtue.
Yashim read the note, frowned, and put it into his breast pocket.
“Let’s go,” he said.