The Snake Stone

60

Yashim picked up the knife and took a few steps toward the swinging door.

A woman was standing in the doorway. She wore a blue traveling cloak edged with satin, its hood drawn up to hide her face. A foreigner. Her hands were loosely clasped in front of her. A small carpetbag with a leather handle lay on the floor beside her.

Yashim’s fingers relaxed. He took a step back.

The woman reached up with both hands and pulled back the hood. Brown curls tumbled around her shoulders and a pair of steady brown eyes met his.

“You are Yashim efendi, n’est-ce pas?”

Her voice was soft and light. Yashim nodded, unable to speak.

“ Tres bien. I am Madame Lefevre. Where is my husband?”

Yashim felt the blood pounding in his ears. He heard himself say, “Entrez, madame, je vous en prie,” and he bent down to take her bag. She moved at the same moment, and their shoulders brushed together.

Yashim gestured to the sofa.

Madame Lefevre glanced around his apartment, and Yashim noticed how tall she was, almost his own height. She crossed the room with long-legged grace, smoothed her cloak behind her, and sat down on the edge of the divan. With a shake of her head she ran a hand under her curls to free them from the collar of her cloak. Beneath it she wore a dress of sprigged cotton; the toes of her black pumps could be seen peeping out from below the hem. The evening sunlight reddened her curls and caught the curve of her cheek. Her eyes, Yashim noticed, were huge.

She gave him a tired smile. “Please,” she said, reaching for the bag. It was in Yashim’s hands. He had forgotten it.

He laid it on the floor, close to her feet.

“I was cooking,” he said shyly, “when you arrived.” He didn’t know what else to say. He looked down and saw the knife in his hands. He turned away to put it down. “Madame Lefevre. I had no idea.”

She made a face, which meant “What can I say?”

Yashim passed his hand over his brow. “And you, madame-you have just arrived in Istanbul?”

“From Samnos, only. I was cataloging some of my husband’s finds.” She laid her finger on the tip of her nose and closed her eyes. “Imam bayildi! I smell the eggplants.”

Yashim blinked in astonishment. I must tell her, he thought to himself. I must tell her now, before it’s too late.

“Not imam bayildi,” he said, raising a finger. “Hunkar beyendi.”

“Hunkar beyendi,” she repeated. “Tell me again, what does it mean?”

“It means-the sultan approved.”

“And imam bayildi? The imam fainted?”

Yashim smiled. “Yes. He was so happy.”

“Ah, yes. And when you cook-Hunkar beyendi, are you not happy, too? Or do you merely approve?” She pulled a frown, like a sultan, then undid the clasp on her cloak and jumped lightly to her feet.

Yashim laughed. “No. I am-I am happy then.”

“Forgive me,” Madame Lefevre said. She glanced around his little kitchen. “I have interrupted your happiness.” She saw the milk jug and peered into the pan. “You are making-it’s a roux, n’est-ce pas?”

“We call it miyane.”

“If we’re quick, it will not be too late!” Madame Lefevre swept her hair off one shoulder and seized the pan. “You stir, monsieur-and I’ll add the milk.”

Stop her, Yashim thought. Tell her what she has to know.

He took the pan and laid it back onto the coals, stabbing the ball of flour and butter and milk with a spoon. It was still warm: Madame Lefevre was right, he needed to carry on or it would spoil. Madame Lefevre took up the jug and carefully allowed a drop into the pan, and then another, and another. They faced each other across the handle of the pan. Madame Lefevre looked up and her eyes were smiling.

“Look, it’s working!”

The miyane began to spread across the bottom of the pan. A little milk slipped down the outside of the jug and dripped onto the table.

“There,” he said. “Stop.”

He reached for the pepper. “We always use white pepper,” he explained, “for the beauty of the dish. It should be very pale.”

He felt awkward as he said it: he was aware of her own pale skin.

“ En effet, it’s a bechamel,” she said.

“It’s a very old recipe, in this part of the world. Butter, flour.”

Madame Lefevre looked interested. “A nomadic dish? Why not? Perhaps we learned it from you?”

“Well,” Yashim hesitated, “I think so, yes. Maybe not directly.” This was one of his pet theories-how had they got onto that so soon? “The Italians were in Pera. Perhaps they brought the idea to France.”

“Catherine de’ Medici,” Madame Lefevre said.

“I think so!” Yashim grinned with delight. “I read it in Careme-listen!” Then he remembered. “At least-I had it before.” He went to the shelves. “Careme, here we are!” He flicked the pages. “I was just reading this: ‘The cooks of the second half of the 1700’s came to know the taste of Italian cooking that Catherine de’ Medici introduced to the French court.’ Perhaps you are right, madame.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Mon Dieu! Careme!”

“It’s lucky I still have it,” Yashim admitted. “I lost a lot of my books recently. Yesterday.”

“You were robbed?”

Yashim smiled. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing important lost. But I’m afraid the apartment is a little bare.”

“I didn’t think such things would happen in Istanbul,” Madame Lefevre said. “Max always tells me how safe it is.”

Max? Yashim frowned: she must mean her husband.

“Madame Lefevre,” he said, “Istanbul is not safe. Not safe at all.” He balled his fists. “I have some terrible news.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you saying, monsieur? Not safe? But what do you mean?” Her voice rose. “Where is Max? Where is my husband?”

“He’s dead,” Yashim said.