The Bellini Card

31

Yashim pushed the door onto a tiny cobbled courtyard. There were pots of rosemary and sage against the whitewashed walls, and a lemon tree grew in the corner, throwing shade over a table and a wooden bench. Beyond the tree was a long wooden screen with slender glazing bars painted blue, which reminded Yashim of a teahouse he had visited once, in Tashkent.

A cage hung from the tree, and in it was a little bird.

Yashim leaned his back to the door and smiled to himself. Through the glass he could see the calligrapher’s pens and brushes standing in pots on the windowsill.

He crossed the yard and knocked tentatively on the half-glazed door. Nobody came, so he leaned his arms against the glass and peered inside. Books lined the walls. There was a low carpeted divan scattered with cushions and in front of it a long table with a big oil lamp at one end. There was a block of paper on the table, with some pens and a bottle of ink. By the ink was a little wooden box. There was a door at the back of the room that was closed. It was blue, like the screen.

It looked like a working room-a tranquil studio. There was no sign of anyone working. Yashim tried the door, but it was locked.

He took a few steps back and saw the bench against the wall. He sat down.

Then the street door opened.