The Janissary Tree

[ 79 ]

Prince Derentsov flung a look at the Austrian ambassador, a man with no visible neck, a vast moustache and a belly like a Bukovina wineskin. He had been standing with his back to the doors, so that Derentsov had the satisfaction of watching his reaction to Palewski as, noticing some change in the expression of the little man he was speaking to, he turned and caught sight of the Polish ambassador.

His heavy jaw dropped. His eyes bulged from his head. He went from sallow to a sort of imperial purple.

Silly fool, Prince Derentsov thought. Certainly the Pole’s coming here tonight, dressed like that, was a deliberate insult to the Powers that had silenced his bickering little nation forty years before. But that Austrian sausage-merchant’s reaction would give the Pole some satisfaction.

The Austrian was trying to catch his eye, dabbing a plump paw in the air like a wounded seal. Derentsov turned on his heel and began to speak to his Second Secretary.

The British ambassador, without disturbing his conversation, allowed his eyes to flicker now and then from his Austrian counterpart to Prince Derentsov. He tugged at his lip to restrain a smile.

The American ambassador said: “i’ll be danged!” He wanted to walk right up and shake Palewski by the hand, but he was new, not only to Istanbul but to the ways of diplomatic protocol. I’ll talk to that fellow before the evening’s out, he thought.

The French ambassador edged around slightly so that when Palewski moved into the room he quite naturally gravitated into the Frenchman’s little group.

And the imperial bandmaster, Giacomo Donizetti, being Italian and highly romantic, held a whispered discussion with the first violin. His programme of light German occasional music drew to a discreet end and, after a moment of rustling scores, the band launched into the latest Chopin polonaise. Some of the cleverer people in the ballroom broke into applause. Prince Derentsov, naturally, continued his conversation.

Sultan Mahmut chose this moment to enter the room. He heard the applause and, feeling his confidence revive—for he hated these international affairs—moved to speak to the French ambassador.

Later on he tried to explain it to his mother.

“I thought he looked damn fine. So did Concordet, I suppose. I wish we could have regiment like that, all sash and colour. Palewski looked like one of us.”

“That much I understand,” the Valide Sultan broke in crisply. “What I can’t understand is why you had to have him locked up.”

The sultan twisted his fingers.

“Don’t be ridiculous, valide. Nobody was locked up. I merely had him escorted to a side-room. I…I interviewed him later. Same with the Russian, Derentsov, and it was all his fault, suggesting the duel. Practically under my nose!”

The valide saw his point. It was on her advice, several years ago, that the sultan had issued a formal decree, backed by the ulema, forbidding the practice of duels within the empire. It was aimed principally at those stubborn Circassian mountaineers whose distant feuds occasionally brought heartache and anxiety into the sultan’s harem, and irritated the Valide Sultan; but it applied also to the touchy foreigners of Galata.

“The British ambassador brought Palewski within earshot of the Russian,” the sultan explained. “So it was his fault, too. I wasn’t there, but Stratford Canning apparently made some effort to catch Derentsov’s attention and the Russian swerved so abruptly that he elbowed Palewski’s glass and ended up with champagne all down his shirt. You know what they’re like. Well, you can imagine, anyway. Derentsov claimed he had been insulted. The Pole pulled out a handkerchief and started to swab Derentsov’s chest—hee hee hee!”

“Mahmut!”

“Well, it was funny, valide. The Russians have never once acknowledged Palewski’s existence. They always pretend they haven’t seen him. But here was Derentsov calling for pistols at dawn, and the Polish ambassador dabbing at him with a napkin!”

The valide, too, gave herself up to the humour of the situation.

“But what did the Pole say?”

Mahmut rocked about, his eyes closed.

“He said—hee hee hee—he said—ah ha ha—“Well in that case I accept the challenge and you can use your own handkerchief!” Hee hee hee!”

The Valide Sultan, who had not laughed for several years, felt carried along by her son’s laughter. It was many years since she had been to a party, but she knew how funny men could look together.

Sultan Mahmut simmered down first, with an occasional snort of hilarity interrupting his story.

“After that, I had to separate them. The Pole came away very politely. I talked to him, and let him go. Derentsov was snarling by the time I got to him—jabbered about infringement of his diplomatic rights and all that. I let him rant and then I said my piece about duels and the law, just as I’d told the Polish ambassador. I said that the mark of a civilised nation was its respect for the individual, and the individual’s respect for law, and that of course I understood that other nations had different principles, but that within the empire which I control duelling is forbidden. This, I said, is why we have laws—and laws, I added, that will be strengthened and clarified in a matter of days. In the meantime, I asked only for his apology.”

“And?”

“If his release had been dependent on his apology, valide, the Russian ambassador might still be waiting in that room. I took some mumbled words—curses, I’m sure—as a sign of contrition, and told him so. Then I suggested he go home, and walked out.”

“Flute, mon bravel You are very clever!”

The valide took her son by the ears, and gave him a kiss.