The Snake Stone

58

Yashim riddled the stove, threw on some coals, and blew on them until they caught. While the charcoal heated, he unpacked his basket. Flour, rice, oil: he had bought replacements, but he would have to look for some new containers. A pat of butter, wrapped in paper. He frowned, thinking ahead; he had forgotten pepper.

He went to the window and looked down into the alley. It was empty. He leaned farther out and shouted: “Elvan!”

He went back to the fire, took out three ripe eggplants, and wiped them with a damp cloth. He laid them on the coals, then took a knob of butter and dropped it into a small pan. On an impulse he lifted the pan to his nose and sniffed: it smelled perfectly clean, however, so he put it down guiltily on the side of the brazier, where the butter would melt.

He turned the eggplants and went back to the window. “Elvan!”

The butter was sliding off across the pan, so he stirred it with a wooden spoon, watching it begin to bubble. He took a big pinch of white flour in his left hand and began to sift it slowly over the butter, still stirring; as he watched, it began to form soft crumbs and then a yellow ball.

He took the pan off the heat, turned the eggplants again, and went to the window.

A small boy was standing in the alley with his hands on his hips.

“Elvan! It’s me, Yashim!”

The boy looked up.

“Some milk, please. And white pepper, if you can get it,” Yashim shouted. Elvan held up a hand, Yashim flipped a coin, and the boy dived and caught it, as he always did.

When the skins were charred Yashim swaddled the eggplants in a cloth. He sharpened a knife. After a minute or two he began to scrape the skins with the edge of the blade. Underneath the blackened skin the flesh was white; he remembered Mavrogordato’s arms on the desk, and pulled a face.

Elvan came in with a jug of milk and a screw of pepper.

“You remembered, white?”

“Of course, efendi.” The little face took on an expression of injured innocence, and Yashim laughed.

“You may keep the change,” he said.

He wiped the eggplants with a soft cloth, then pounded them in the mortar. He warmed up the pan again and slowly began adding the milk, drop by drop.

In the French embassy in Pera the ambassador would be penning his report. Word by word the case against Yashim would form and swell, in the smoothest diplomatic style: accusing no one, implying much.

There was a tap on the door. Yashim frowned. “Elvan?” He called, not taking his eyes off the pan.

He heard the click of the latch and felt a prickling at the back of his neck.

Very carefully he set the pan aside. He glanced at the door, slowly swinging inward, then at the knife on the block.

“Who’s that?” he called. “Who’s there?”