The Snake Stone

49

“Permission to enter?” Yashim stood at the gates, peering around at the children in the yard. The little girl-what was her name? — looked up and gave him a brief smile, but Shpetin tucked his chin into his chest and stared sullenly at the ground.

“Don’t shoot-it’s only me,” Yashim said brightly as he crossed the yard.

He found Palewski in bed, balancing a cup of tea on his knees.

“I see your sentry’s been withdrawn,” he said.

“What? You mean the little boy. Well, I don’t know. His father’s gone off somewhere without telling and everyone’s feeling the pinch. Mrs. Xani is gloomy enough at the best of times, but it’s Marta I worry about. Again. She’s quite upset for the little boy.”

Yashim nodded. “Children like a routine,” he said.

“Hmmm. They’d been going out together recently, Xani and his boy. A sort of apprenticeship. Then the boy came back rather late one evening, on his own.”

Yashim nodded. Marta, the little boy: it was obviously a difficult morning for Palewski. He wanted to talk about Lefevre’s book.

“I was attacked last night,” he said.

“My dear fellow!” The ambassador looked shocked. “The whole place is going to the dogs.”

Yashim told him about the caiques and his unexpected dip. “They wanted that book.”

“My God! You were lucky. Have a look at this.”

He passed across the copy of Gyllius. On the back page, stamped in green ink, was an oval containing the words in Greek: “Dmitri Goulandris, Bookseller.”

Yashim gave a dismal snort. “But Goulandris could barely read himself. He wouldn’t have understood anything in the book.”

“Not many people would. But perhaps the killer didn’t know that. Didn’t know Goulandris, except that he sold books. Including this one.”

Yashim stared at the book in his hands. “You told me it’s not even all that rare.”

“Hmmm.” Palewski was enjoying himself. “An original copy of Gyllius? I’ve never come across one. But you’re right. Nonetheless,” he added, pointing, “that copy is quite unique. It’s a matter of provenance.”

Palewski put his hands behind his head and lay back against the cushions. “Take an old book or an old painting. In fact, let’s take one of Lefevre’s favorites, say a Bible. Illuminated. Thirteenth century. It’s Byzantine. Probably done in Georgia. All well and good-but what would its story be? How would it come to be sitting in the window of a shop in Saint Germain six hundred years later?”

“Lefevre would have stolen it, I suppose.”

“Of course he’d have stolen it, but that’s immaterial,” Palewski said. “What matters to him-and his clients-is that this book has spent the last six hundred years, let’s say, in a scriptorium in Georgia. Better still: it formed part of the last Byzantine emperor’s own personal collection in Istanbul, and then was rescued by the Georgians after the Ottoman Conquest in 1453.”

“Giving it a history.”

“It is called provenance. Tells people it’s the genuine article. I mean, if the monks liked it, and hung on to it, it must be the real stuff. But also, of course, it’s the story of the piece. I wager that Lefevre knew how to tell a story.”

“It is the same with the House of Osman. Anyone could rule the empire-even I. But only the sultan has-this provenance.”

“In a manner of speaking, yes, you’re right.” Palewski frowned. “I suppose when we-the Poles-began to elect our kings, we lost track of the story. Then we lost our country, too,” he added dejectedly.

“You said this book was unique,” Yashim said quickly.

Palewski rallied himself. “From what I’ve seen, I would say that it belonged to Delmonico.”

Yashim shook his head.

“About forty years after Gyllius came to Istanbul,” the ambassador explained, “an Italian called Delmonico wrote an account of the city himself. He’d been a page in the household of the sultan-the Grand Signor. Knew what he was talking about. But forty years later, Yashim. He was interested by Gyllius, because Gyllius saw the city as it had been.”

“And what was that?”

“Byzantine Constantinople.” Palewski frowned. “No, that’s not quite right. Gyllius is really writing about three cities, one above the other. The first-it’s classical Constantinople. Fifth century. Gyllius has got an old book, a description of the city as it stood in Justinian’s day. With this in his hand, he goes about trying to identify the old monuments, the old palaces-ruins, most of them. Interesting stuff.

“But there’s another Constantinople he’s describing, too-the one he’s walking around in. It’s the city that rose up in the intervening centuries-during a thousand years of Greek religion, Roman law, Greek language. Of course it’s changing again, in front of his very eyes. The Ottomans have taken charge. So Gyllius collars old Greeks who can still remember how it was before the Conquest-the name of an old church, for instance, which has been demolished or turned into a mosque. He’s not so interested in all that himself-but we are.”

“I see what you mean,” Yashim agreed. “And the third city?”

Palewski clasped his hands together. “The third city, Yashim, is being built around him. Ottoman Istanbul.”

Yashim took the book from the bed and turned it over in his hands.

“It was a time of change, Yashim. Like today, I suppose. You and I watch Istanbul being made more Western every day. Gyllius recorded the opposite: the remaking of Istanbul along Muslim lines. By the time Delmonico, the Italian, arrived, the process was to all intents complete. The city we have today.”

“And this man-Delmonico-examined Gyllius’s book.”

“Of course. To learn what had changed.”

“How do you know?”

“I didn’t notice it until I started reading-he writes in the margin of the text. He used brown ink. I’ve got Delmonico’s own book, and there are pieces I recognize. General observations. No one else was so close to Istanbul, writing in Italian, at the right period. It has to be Delmonico. And that, Yashim, is provenance.”

“You think Lefevre would have spotted it?” But Yashim knew the answer already. Lefevre would have known immediately, the moment he found the book in Goulandris’s little store. Goulandris would have had no idea.

“I expect he bought it cheap,” Palewski said.

Yashim nodded slowly. “Somebody writes a book-Gyllius. Another man comes along and scribbles a few thoughts in the margin. Delmonico. Why does Lefevre think it’s so important?”

Palewski threw up his hands. “As to that, Yashim, I’ve no idea. He could have sold it for a little more, I suppose, by playing up the Delmonico angle. But it wasn’t going to make him rich.”

Yashim thought of the Frenchman, with his neat hands and veiled threats. “I’m quite sure that Lefevre smelled money in that book. Did you say you had a French translation?”

“I found it last night.”

Yashim stared down at the book in his hands. “Lefevre died because he acted on something he believed in,” he said. “You reminded me that he believed everything he read in books.”

He stood up. “Whatever it was, maybe Gyllius believed it, too.” Yashim scratched his head. “Didn’t you say that there was something odd about Gyllius? His going to war?”

“He went east with Suleyman, to fight the Persians. It does seem an odd thing to do, for an antiquarian.”

“Why would Suleyman want him along, anyway?”

“Oh, as to that, I think Suleyman had no objection to foreigners witnessing his triumphs. Let me fetch you the French edition.”