The Snake Stone

19

Early the next morning, leaving the Frenchman sleeping on the divan, Yashim walked down to the Horn and took a caique over to Galata, the center of foreign commerce. In the harbormaster’s office he asked for the shipping list and scanned it for a suitable vessel. There was a French 400-tonner, La Reunion, leaving for Valetta and Marseilles with a mixed cargo in four days’ time; but there was a Neapolitan vessel, too, Ca d’Oro out of Palermo, which had already been issued with bills of lading. The Italian ship would certainly be cheaper; if Lefevre was going back to France, he’d easily pick up another berth in Palermo, so the voyage might not be that much longer-and there was the undeniable advantage that the Ca d’Oro might leave the very next day. Yashim had no desire to prolong the Frenchman’s agony of mind a moment longer than was necessary.

He found the Ca d’Oro ’s captain in a little cafe overlooking the Bosphorus. He had heavy eyebrows that met above his nose, and wore a plain summer cutaway coat, which looked as if it had been rigged up by the sailmaker. The coat was dirty, but the man’s fingernails were very clean when he offered Yashim a pipe. Yashim declined the offer but accepted coffee. Certo, the Ca d’Oro would leave on the morning tide, God willing; si, there were berths. The gentleman could come aboard directly; or tonight if he preferred, it was all the same, the ship’s boat would be running back and forth from the dockside all day with returning crew and last-minute purchases. Or one of the caiques might bring him out.

He handed Yashim a spyglass and encouraged him to look out for the ship.

“You’ll see her close in to shore, signor. Two-masted brig, high in the poop. Old? Si, but she knows her duty, ha ha! She could find her own way to Palermo after all these years, maybe.”

Yashim squinted down the telescope and found the ship, low in the water, with a couple of sailors standing in the waist and the white and gold of Naples hanging limply from her stern. Rather old, for sure, and fairly small-but there, she was the vessel he’d have taken himself, if he was in a hurry. Lefevre seemed to be in a hurry.

The captain spread out a few papers on the table. “Half in advance, forty piastres, it’s normal.” He made some notes on a worn sheet of paper. “Your friend’s name?”

Yashim’s mind went momentarily blank. “Lefevre,” he stammered finally.

The captain glanced up. “ Francese, bene. He has all his papers, of course-passport, quarantine certificate?”

Yashim said yes, he had all the right documents. He hoped it was true; at least Lefefvre would be on board and under way before anything was known about it. Lefevre wasn’t an innocent: he’d take care of himself.

The captain wrote the name down on his sheet and put the folded papers away in his coat. Yashim dug out the purse from his belt and counted out forty piastres in silver onto the table. The captain picked two coins at random, bit them, and returned them to the pile with a grunt. “It’ll pass,” he said.

They shook hands. “What are you carrying?”

The Italian grimaced. “You name it. Rice. Egyptian cotton. Pepper. Bees. Eighty pieces of Ottoman silver, I hope, and a Frenchman!”

They both laughed, meaninglessly.