The Janissary Tree

[ 13 ]

Mustafa the Albanian sniffed suspiciously at the bowl of tripe. There were, he knew, certain parties in the city who had embraced heretical doctrines. Daily, he was certain, they were extending their dangerous influence over the weaker, more impressionable members of society: young men, people from out of town, even students at the medreses who surely should know better, found it all to easy to succumb to the subtle blandishments of these rogues. Some of them, he was well aware, simply abused the authorities’ trust. Others—and who could say they were not encouraged by that baleful example?—recognised no authority at all. Well, he thought grimly, he was there to root them out.

He sniffed again. The colour of the soup was good: no obvious sign of innovation there. Mustafa was of the school that followed the saying of the Prophet, peace be on him: in change there is innovation, innovation leads to blasphemy, blasphemy leads to hell fire. The notion that a good tripe soup needed the addition of a pinch of pounded coriander was the kind of innovation which, if left unchecked, would gradually undermine the whole guild and destroy its ability to serve the city as it should. It made no difference whether the heretics charged extra for the spice, or not: the confusion would have entered men’s minds. Where there was a weakness to be exploited, there would greed find its encouragement.

Mustafa sniffed again. Lifting the horn spoon that hung around his neck as a symbol of his office, he dipped it into the bowl and turned the contents over. Tripe. Onions. Regularly shaped, faintly caramelised. He dug down to the bottom of the bowl and examined the spoon carefully in the light for any specks or impurities. Satisfied, he lifted the spoon to his lips and sucked noisily. Tripe soup. He smacked his lips, his immediate fears allayed. Whatever secrets this young apprentice held in the recesses of his heart he could definitely make the proper article on demand.

Two anxious pairs of eyes followed the spoon to the guild master’s lips. They saw the soup go in. They heard the soup flow about Mustafa’s palate. They watched anxiously as he held his hand close to his ear. And then they watched, delighted, as he nodded curtly. An apprenticeship redeemed. A new master soupier born.

“It is good. Keep an eye on the onions: never use them too large. The size of your fist is good, or smaller.” He brought up his own massive paw and curled the fingers. “Too big!” He shook the fist and laughed. The apprentice tittered.

They discussed arrangements for the apprentice’s formal induction into the guild, his prospects, the extent of his savings and the likelihood of his finding an opening within the next few years. Mustafa knew that this was the most dangerous moment. Newly fledged soupiers always wanted to start right away, whatever the circumstances. It took patience and humility to carry on working for an old master while you waited for a shop to come free.

Patience, yes. Impatience led to coriander and hell fire. Mustafa tugged at his moustache and squinted at the young man. Did he have patience? As for himself, he thought, patience was his second skin. How could he have lived his life, and not acquired patience in positively redemptive quantities?