The Snake Stone

126

Across the Golden Horn, in a dilapidated mansion close to the Grande Rue, a man stood listening at an open window.

“So that’s that,” he said at last, so quietly that the girl in the room could only imagine he had spoken. She set the tray down carefully on the desk.

From the windows she heard the distant muezzins calling the prayer for the dead.

Palewski turned. The bottle on the tray was old and squat. Many years ago, a Polish nobleman had ordered it among a few dozen such from one of the best Cognac houses in France, to lay down in the cellars on his estate. That man was Palewski’s father. “It’s good Martell,” he’d say. “If in doubt, dump the paintings but hang on to the brandy.”

Palewski pulled out a penknife and slit the wax around the neck. He pulled the cork and poured a measure into each glass.

Gently he picked up both glasses by the stem.

Marta blushed. “Lord-I cannot-I-”

Palewski shook his head. “It’s to remember him by,” he said. “He ruled this empire for as long as I’ve known Istanbul. All your life, Marta.”

He held the glass to the light. “To Mahmut!”

“To Mahmut,” Marta echoed, smiling.